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POSSESSIVE PLAYER
GAME ON: BOOK 2

LENA LITTLE
© 2024 by Lena Little
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the
author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
If you see this book anywhere other than Amazon, it is a stolen version of this story. My stories are exclusive to Amazon and can only be purchased through Amazon or
read through Amazon’s Kindle Unlimited program.
 CONTENTS
Free Books

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue

Also by Lena Little

 PREVIEW
After fifteen years in the league, I’m pretty worn out and broken down.
The team I spent those fifteen years with must have agreed because they sent me packing with a Thanks for your service and a
kick in the ass on the way out the door. The trouble is I just don’t have it in me to walk away. Deep down, I feel I still have
enough in the tank to finish my career on a high note.
Unfortunately for me, as a free agent for the first time in my career, I signed with a team I thought needed me to lead them.
Come to find out, they need a veteran mentor after giving up a king’s ransom to move up in the draft Ryder Simmons—a kid
with all the God-given talent in the world but the common sense of a f*cking walnut.
Brash, bold, and egotistical as f*ck, this kid is a piece of work. If I’m being honest though, it’s hard not to see a bit of myself in
him when I was his age.
As training camp opens, all signs point to the kid starting the season as QB1 and me spending my last season or so sitting on the
bench behind him. All signs point to me ending my career as the kid’s f*cking wet nurse—a humiliating fall from grace. It’s
hardly the way a two-time champion should go out, has me at the lowest point of my career and giving serious thought to
hanging them up and walking away.
But then, I meet Cami and things start to change.
Cami breathes new life into me and makes me feel younger than I had in a very long time. She makes me reconsider retirement
and lights a competitive fire under my ass that, in all truthfulness, has been dormant for years.
Cami has me riding high on the belief I could have that storybook ending I wanted when I signed in the first place. This girl’s
gonna be mine. She’s gonna belong to me … her Daddy.
The problem is that Ryder notices her too, and I quickly learn just how much of an asshole he is. He’ll stop at nothing to get
what he wants. And what he wants is Cami.
Yeah, no.
Guess he’s gonna learn his lesson the hard way.
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 1
CARTER

“W hat the fuck am I even doing here, Steve?” I ask. “I came out here because you said you wanted me to play quarterback
for your team.”
“And that hasn’t changed, Carter. I just⁠—”
“If that hasn’t changed, why is the fucking rookie getting all the reps?”
“Look, it’s early in camp and JB just wants to see what we have in him. That’s all. Don’t read too much into it.”
“It’s hard not to when he’s building chemistry with the team while I’m standing over here with my thumb up my ass,” I growl.
I’m standing off to the side of the field with Steve Boyer, the team’s General Manager. The desert sun is beating down on me,
and even though I haven’t taken a single fucking snap with the team yet, sweat is streaming down my face. It’s hot and I’m
pissed off. And with every snap the rookie takes with the team out there, I’m feeling more and more like I got sold a bill of
goods. I feel like both Steve and the head coach, Jay Blankenship, made promises to me to get me here, and once I signed that
fucking contract, those all went out the window.
After two championships and fifteen years in Los Angeles, I found myself without a team for the first time since I came out of
college. LA thanked me for everything I did for the team and sent me packing. It was a stark reminder for me that football is a
business, and all businesses have a cold bottom line side to them. It had been a decade since our last title, and though we’d
been good every year I was under center, we were never able to get over that hump again.
Steve Boyer had been one of my coaches at UCLA. We developed a rapport that became a long, comfortable friendship. We
always checked in with each other, even after I left school and was drafted by LA in what seems like another lifetime already.
But when LA didn’t renew my contract, he was the first one to call me. He flew me out to Las Vegas to meet with him and
coach Blankenship and because of my comfortability with Steve and Coach B’s system, I signed. I’m starting to think now that
might have been a big fucking mistake.
“You guys never mentioned you were going to trade up to draft this kid,” I say. “If I’d known, I might not have signed. I feel like
you fucked me here, Steve.”
“Come on, let’s not blow things out of proportion here, Carter. Training camp just opened and like I said, JB wants to see what
we have in this kid. That’s all.”
“Exactly. Training camp just opened. I’m new to this squad, and this is the time I should be building rapport and chemistry with
the team. You used to play, man. You know how important it is for a new QB1 to build those bonds with his team,” I press.
“Coach B hasn’t even looked at me once during this session. So again I ask, what the fuck am I doing here, Steve?”
“Come on, Carter. Ryder Simmons is JB’s shiny new toy, and he just wants to play with him for a little while. I mean, you have
to admit, the kid has some freakish athletic talent. Strong arm. Mobile. Decisive. Looks like he can change arm angles and
make any throw. He reminds me of you when you came out of UCLA, actually.”
I scoff. “He’s arrogant. Cocky. Thinks he walks on water.”
“Like I said, he reminds me of you coming out of college,” Steve replies with a grin.
“Funny,” I say without a trace of humor.
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re our quarterback of the present. But you’re thirty-seven, Carter. You’ve always been a realist,
so you know how this goes. Your best days are behind you, but I still believe you’ve got something in the tank. I think you’ve
still got a bit of good football in you,” he says. “But that kid out there—that’s our quarterback of the future. You know he’s got
gifts and he’s got talent. I know you do. You’re right, he’s a cocky asshole. What we need is somebody to help hone and shape
him, somebody who can teach him to be a professional. Somebody who can teach him to be a winner. We need somebody to
teach him to be another Carter Cole.”
“Great. So, I’m a glorified babysitter,” I grumble.
“Is that what you heard, Carter? Because that’s not what I said.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to draft him? I mean, how many meetings and dinners did we have before I signed?
Why didn’t you ever once tell me you were bringing this fucking kid in?”
“Because that plan didn’t come together until after we’d agreed to a deal. Things just fell into our lap, and we found ourselves
with a chance to move up and take him—something we didn’t think we had when we were doing our deal with you,” he says.
“We feel like he has a real opportunity to learn from you—the same way you learned from Castle when you first came into the
league. You remember Castle, don’t you?”
“Of course, I remember Castle.”
Hank Castle was LA’s QB1 when I came into the league. He was in the same position I find myself in right now. But Castle
took me under his wing and, if I’m being honest, helped shape me into the quarterback I would become. It wasn’t easy at first.
He was as threatened by me as I am by Ryder Simmons right now. As a competitor, it’s not easy when a younger, more athletic
guy comes in and is gunning for your job. I get that now. But that doesn’t make this suck any less.
“Relax. It’s going to be fine,” he tells me. “I’ll talk to JB and get us all on the same page here. Just chill, man. You’re good.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Steve chuckles and pats me on the shoulder. “Same old Carter. Always uptight, seeing the worst in everything, and predicting
the sky is falling.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” I mutter.
He turns and walks off, still chuckling to himself. I stand on the sideline, watching the kid slinging balls all across the field.
Throws he shouldn’t be able to make, he’s making. Steve is right about the kid’s talent. There’s no denying that. His problem is
with his attitude. And maybe there’s a little truth to what Steve said about the parallels between us when I first came into the
league. But it’s very little truth. My ego was nowhere near what this kid’s is.
I was never handed the keys to the kingdom like him. I wasn’t a highly touted or even a recruited prospect coming out of high
school. I was a walk-on at UCLA for Christ’s sake. I had to fight, compete, and scrap for everything I got. I earned my way.
This kid though, he’s been groomed for this. Told every fucking day just how special he is and had his ego stroked by anybody
and everybody. It’s not surprising he turned out to be an entitled asshole.
The whistle blows, ending the throwing session, and the players break out and head for their respective position groups for
individual drills. I watch as the rookie walks to the sideline and heads over to a younger woman from the training staff. I’ve
noticed her before. No more than five-two and a hundred pounds soaking wet, she’s got golden, sun-kissed skin, ash-brown
hair, and hazel-colored eyes. She’s got amazing curves and, for being so short, long, enticing legs. The girl is a stunner for sure.
They’re too far away for me to hear the conversation, but the rookie says something to her she obviously doesn’t like because
her face darkens and a frown crosses her full, red lips. He’s giving her a smarmy smile that sets my teeth on edge. She walks
away, but the rookie follows her, continuing to talk to her even though she’s pointedly ignoring him. It’s more than obvious he’s
making her uncomfortable. She stops and kneels down to pack some things into her bag, and Ryder stands over her, continuing
to talk. The girl looks like she wants to be anywhere but there.
Muttering under my breath, I walk over to where they are. She raises those wide hazel eyes to me, seeming to be silently
begging me for help. Ryder turns and sneers at me.
“Do you mind, Pops?” he says. “We’re having a private conversation.”
“Doesn’t look like she wants to talk to you. Why don’t you just leave her be and let her do her job, kid,” I say.
“Walk away, old man. This isn’t your business.”
“I’m making it my business. I can see from across the field that you’re making her uncomfortable so turn around and walk the
fuck away.”
He squares up to me, his dark brown eyes boring into mine. Gritting my teeth, I stand my ground and look back at him just as
hard. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten into a fight so I might be a little rusty, but I figure it’s like riding a bike. It might not be
a good look for me to punch the kid’s face in, but I’m ready for it. I’m not going to let him intimidate this girl.
Our gazes are locked. It’s a silent game of chicken, and the corner of my mouth curls upward when he flinches first. He takes a
step back and, as if realizing he lost the battle of wills, tries to save face by putting an I don’t care expression on his face. He
laughs to himself as he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair.
“Whatever,” he grumbles.
“You’ve got a lot to learn about how to treat people, kid.”
“Go fuck yourself, old man. I’m taking the QB1 job, just so you know. You’re way past your prime. But hey, if you play nice, I
might let you wash my jock strap.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Even if you do though, you’re still going to be a little bitch,” I say with a chuckle. “And you still have a lot to
learn about being a man and treating people with respect.”
His eyes narrow and his sharp jawline clenches as he grits his teeth.
Ryder mumbles something under his breath as he turns and stalks away. I watch him go then turn to the girl, who’s still kneeling
next to her bag.
“Sorry about him,” I say.
She throws the roll of tape in her hand into the bag and quickly zips it up. She’s shaking, clearly rattled.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I-I’m fine. Thank you for…that.”
“No problem. Just let me know if he hassles you again.”
She nods quickly then turns and darts away, heading toward the training facility. As she goes, I can’t help but admire the way
the muscles in her legs move as well as the way her shorts cup her tight, heart-shaped ass. It’s poetry in fucking motion.
“Damn,” I mutter and shake my head.
“Cole. Let’s go. Seven on sevens,” Coach B calls.
Finally managing to tear my eyes away from that picturesque ass, I turn and jog over to the group milling about on the field,
pointedly ignoring the dark looks Ryder Simmons is casting my way like he’s beneath me. Because right now, that’s exactly
what I think he is.
 2
CAMI

T he click of my office door opening sends a jolt of adrenaline through me, and I sit up quickly, nearly jumping out of my skin.
Head coach Jay Blankenship steps through the door and offers me a wide smile. I slump back in my seat, the tension in my
shoulders ease as I narrow my eyes and glare at him.
“So, we’re not knocking now?” I ask. “Is that like, not a thing we do anymore?”
Blankenship’s smile widens. “I’m your dad, Cami. Do I really need to knock?”
“Huh. I seem to recall my father telling me that within the walls of this facility, we can’t be father and daughter,” I reply. “He
said we need to keep it strictly professional at all times.”
He closes my office door behind him and chuckles. He crosses the office, drops down into the chair in front of my desk,
crosses one leg over the other, and leans back. “That only applies when other people are around.”
“Oh. Good to know.”
“Why are you so jumpy, anyway? You in here watching porn or something?”
“Ha. Ha,” I reply and roll my eyes. “What do you want, Dad?”
“You’re so grumpy, daughter of mine.”
“I’ve had a rough day.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m sorry I’m so grumpy. I don’t mean to take it out on you. Anyway, what’s up?”
“Well, I heard something happened between you and Ryder out on the practice field. I was just curious about what happened.”
“Why? What did you hear?”
He grimaces. “To be honest, I heard you went off on him pretty good.”
“That is what we call a lie. I kept myself from going off on him. I handled myself professionally and simply tried to walk away
from him when the situation was escalating.”
I’m not going to lie—I’ve got a temper. You would think that’s something I inherited from my football coach father, but I
actually got that from my mother. She was fiery. Like her, I’m a strong, confident, and independent woman. I’m not afraid to
stand up for myself or call people out for their bad behavior. I’m not exactly a shrinking violet, especially when somebody is
crossing my boundaries and making me uncomfortable.
Out on the field earlier, Ryder Simmons definitely crossed my boundaries and made me uncomfortable. He acted like a
disgusting, entitled asshole. Rather than say that though, I held my tongue and tried to remove myself from the situation. He
wouldn’t take a hint and kept pushing and prodding me, which only made me even more uncomfortable, and it was getting
harder and harder to hold my tongue.
Thank God for Carter Cole. I had almost reached my breaking point with Ryder and was about to go off on him when Carter
stepped up and made the rookie back off. If not for him, I would have wailed at Ryder like a banshee and that would have
created a lot of problems for me and the organization as a whole. There’s nothing worse than an egomaniacal superstar with a
case of bruised feelings.
“What happened, honey?” my father asks.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Fine,” I reply. “Ryder came up to me when I was packing my bag out there and said something… inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate? What did he say?”
My cheeks get hot and turn an unnatural shade of red. I don’t say anything for a moment and, instead, look away. I know I
shouldn’t feel embarrassed because this is not my problem and I didn’t do anything wrong, but I do all the same.
“Cami?”
“He asked me to blow him, Dad. Happy?”
“He did what?”
“Yeah. Asked me to blow him. And when I said no, he kept trying to pressure me. Thank God Carter was there to make him
leave me alone.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t just joking around? I mean, he’s kind of an odd duck, honey. He’s got a strange sense of humor⁠—”
“It wasn’t a joke. He was dead serious. And don’t give me that boys will be boys bullshit. That boy is a sexual predator.”
“He’s young⁠—”
“Still not an excuse for that kind of behavior. Sexual harassment is not okay.”
A wistful, nostalgic smile touches his lips. “You sound just like your mother.”
“She taught me well. She taught me to never accept bad behavior and never be afraid to call it out. But I'm making a concerted
effort to hold my tongue and not cause a scene. I know how fragile the egos of some of these guys are.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair. He seems caught between being an outraged father and a head
coach. My dad looks down at the floor for a moment, trying to find the right words to say. Not that I don’t already know. Part of
my dad’s job is to protect the team and all the players who wear our uniform—especially from themselves. And that means
handling some things in-house, which is just a euphemism for sweeping things under the rug.
When he looks up and I see the look in his eye, I know that’s exactly what is about to happen. I’m tempted to hand him a broom
and a dustpan. But I knew that was part of the deal when I signed on to work here after graduating. And I signed on anyway. For
the most part, I like working with my dad. But I also want the experience I’m getting here because I’ve got bigger plans for my
future—plans that don’t include being sexually harassed by entitled, douchebag frat bros who think they’re God’s gift to the
world.
“It’s fine, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s over. I doubt it will happen again, so it’s fine.”
He sighs. “It’s not fine. But you know how things are. Football organizations are like⁠—”
“Please don’t give me the ‘Football organizations are like delicate ecosystems’ speech again. I can’t hear that right now.”
He chuckles softly and nods to himself. My dad likes to say a football organization is a delicate ecosystem that requires all
things to be in harmony and balance. That is simply a nice way of saying these thin-skinned million-dollar babies need to be
coddled, pampered, and made to feel special because a football team needs all the different pieces of this fragile ecosystem
working together. He says if one piece of the ecosystem is disrupted—meaning having one butthurt superstar pouting and
brooding like a child—it might just throw the entire system out of balance, which could be catastrophic for the entire football
team.
I swear to God, most of these guys have egos that are more fragile than spun sugar. I’ve seen children with thicker skin than
some of these guys.
“I’m going to have a word with him,” my father finally says. “I’ll take care of this, honey.”
“Honestly, Dad, just leave it alone. It’s fine. Besides, Carter stepped in and had a word. I doubt Ryder’s going to bother me
again.”
He frowns. “I suppose I’ll be having a word with Carter as well since that’s not his job.”
“Dad, seriously… just leave it be. It’s been settled. If you go barking at people and throwing your weight around now, you’re
only going to make things worse. And we wouldn’t want to upset the delicate ecosystem, would we?”
My dad looks like a man who just dodged a big bullet. The expression that crosses his face is almost one of relief. I think part
of him expects me to demand he do something about his prized rookie quarterback, which would have been my right. The
organization has a zero-tolerance sexual harassment policy. On paper, at least. But punishing Ryder for his horrible behavior
will likely piss him off, thus upsetting the ecosystem’s fragile balance. And we can’t have that, can we?
“Well, let me know if anything like that ever happens again, Cami.”
“Sure, Dad.”
He gets to his feet and gives me a small smile. He knows I’m not pleased about how this situation is being handled but seems
appreciative that I’m not going to make a federal case about it and risk causing strife within the team. I’m nothing if not a team
player.
“Dinner tonight?” he asks.
“Sounds good.”
“Okay, I’ll see you later.”
He leaves my office, softly closing the door behind him. I slump back in my seat and blow out a frustrated breath. I’m not the
sort of girl who needs somebody to stand up for me. My mom taught me to never rely on anybody else but to be strong enough
to stand on my own two feet. But still, it would be nice to know that my father values me more than he values the football team.
I mean, I understand the position he’s in. I do. But I wonder how it will feel if he’s just my dad for a change and doesn't stop to
think through the ramifications to the whole team when somebody does something terrible to me.
“Whatever,” I mutter to myself as I sit up.
I open the windows I closed when my dad walked in and smile to myself. I wasn’t looking at porn. Not exactly. But as I look at
the picture of Carter Cole on my screen, I feel my cheeks flush and think I might as well have been doing what my dad accused
me of. Or maybe it’s thinking I wouldn’t mind filming porn with him that’s making my stomach churn.
Six-three with wavy, sandy blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes, he’s chiseled like a Greek god and just exudes masculinity.
Guys talk about alpha male this and alpha male that these days. Carter Cole doesn’t talk about it—he just is one. Every square
inch of his body is taut and toned, and the mere sight of him is enough to make my heart stop dead in my chest. Just thinking
about him now makes my pulse race and butterflies flutter in my belly. And staring into those dreamy blue eyes makes me
uncomfortably wet.
Wow. It’s probably safe to say I’ve got a crush on Carter. It’s probably safer to say I’ve had a crush on him my whole life.
Having literally grown up around the game, I’ve been around pro athletes all my life. And probably because I grew up around
these guys and have seen what they’re really like away from the cameras, I’m never all that impressed by them. But Carter is
the first player I remember really rooting for when I was younger. He always seemed so cool and carried himself with such a
swagger that I was infatuated from the start.
He’s the only ball player who’s ever made me fangirl like this. When I heard we were signing him, I was more than a little
excited. The first time I saw him in the building, I was like a giddy schoolgirl, which made me feel like an absolute idiot. But
seeing him live and in the flesh made me feel stupidly starstruck in a way I’d never felt before so I handled it like the mature
adult I was—I ran away. And since then, I’ve been purposely avoiding him just because I’m terrified I’m going to say
something dumb.
Of course, having him step in and defend me wasn’t exactly the way I wanted to formally introduce myself to him. I mean, like I
said, I’m not the damsel-in-distress kind of girl and I don’t need people fighting my battles for me. Ordinarily, if somebody did
that, I’d probably take offense to it and let them know I didn’t need them to come riding to my defense. I’m more than capable.
I’m very much my mother’s daughter that way.
I have to be honest, though. Something about watching Carter step in and put the rookie in his place like that, something about
the way he stood there and seemed ready to fight on my behalf—quite literally—was kind of… hot. I never thought I’d be the
kind of girl who enjoyed seeing a man ready to throw blows to defend me. But… I have to admit. Watching Carter get in
Ryder’s face like that kind of turned me on.
It’s not something I’m proud of. Although, I’m not particularly ashamed of it either. Honestly, I’m a little confused by it
because, like I said, I’m not that kind of girl. At least… I didn’t think I was. As I look at Carter’s picture on my computer
screen and think of the way I felt when he was face to face with Ryder, when he was so protective and defensive of me, I start
to think that maybe I am.
Or maybe it’s just how Carter makes me feel.
 3
CARTER

I ’m standing on the sidelines yet again, watching Ryder Simmons taking the reps as Coach B runs the team drills. It’s another
hot day in the desert, but it’s the anger flowing through my veins that’s got me feeling more heated than the actual temperature.
As I stand here, my agent, Lane Monahan, walks over and takes a spot beside me.
“I got your message last night,” Lane says.
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That they were going to draft Simmons.”
“Of course, I didn’t,” he says.
“When we met with Steve and Coach B, they made it sound like I was their QB1. And yet, here I am standing off to the side,
watching the rookie get all the reps. How did this happen, Lane?”
He runs a hand through his silver hair, his azure eyes hidden behind a pair of stylish, designer sunglasses. As always, he's
neatly dressed in khakis, a dark green polo shirt, and expensive shoes. As he likes to say, he dresses for success. Lane is good
at what he does, and he’s done right by me my entire career. I’ve never had a complaint with him. Not until now.
“I asked Steve about it before I came out here. He said they had an opportunity to draft this kid they didn’t think they were
going to have. My understanding is Bruce is in love with the kid and pressured them to make the deal to move up in the draft to
take him,” Lane says. “Steve insists you’re the QB1 of the present, but Simmons is the future. They want you to mentor him.
Mold him. They think he can be the next Carter Cole⁠—”
“Don’t blow sunshine up my ass, Lane. It’s not a good look. What I want to know is if I’m the QB1 of the present, why am I
standing here when I should be working with my team? It’s a new system and I need to learn it."
“I think JB is just trying to get a feel for this kid. I wouldn’t read too much into it, Carter.”
“I want out. Talk to Steve. Tell him to trade or release me. This isn’t going to work here. I’m sure there are plenty of other
teams who can use me. Who will use me.”
“It’s not that easy, Carter.”
“How hard is it to get Steve to cut me?”
“It’s harder than you think, but I have a feeling you know that already.”
“Lane, if they’re going to make me sit on the goddamn bench behind this rookie, I don’t want to be here. I’d rather fucking
retire.”
“Let’s not overreact here.”
"I'm not overreacting. They told me I was going to be the starter. But the way reps are being divvied up at the moment, it’s
looking like the kid is going to be starting.”
“Camp just opened, Carter. I suggest exercising a little patience. I know it’s not your strong suit, but I suggest you just relax and
let things play out,” he says with a grin.
I fall silent and watch as the kid zips another pass to a receiver across the middle. His footwork is solid, and his accuracy is on
point. I’m not going to deny the kid’s talent. He’s got a cannon and can make plays with his legs too. But if the team was going
to go with the rookie, they never should have brought me in. They never should have told me I was going to be the day one
starter only to leave me sitting over here while they give the kid all the reps.
Cami, the trainer Ryder was harassing the other day, comes out of the facility. She’s dressed in black shorts that showcase those
legs and that glorious little ass just perfectly. Her full, round tits strain against the fabric of her black polo shirt and bounce
almost hypnotizingly as she walks across the field. I watch her and feel my cock stiffening. I shift on my feet, trying to tear my
eyes away from her to keep me from getting a full hard-on out here. She’s such a sexy little thing, so it’s not easy to stop staring
at her.
I finally manage to turn my attention back to Lane and refocus on the purpose of him being here in the first place.
“Look, man. I’ve got a few good years left in me,” I tell him. “I don’t want to spend those years rotting on a goddamn bench.”
Lane purses his lips and looks away. He and I have always had a very open and honest relationship. I trust him in all things.
For the first time in our long run together, I get the feeling he’s not telling me something.
“What? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Look, Carter. I mean, you’re fifteen years into your career now. You’ve had multiple knee surgeries, and you haven’t been as
effective over the last season and a half, maybe two seasons now,” Lane says. “I mean, I’ve always given it to you straight, so
here it is. You’re in the twilight of your career, man.”
I look at him for a long moment then burst into laughter. “Do you think I don’t already know that? Are you kidding me with that
shit, Lane? That’s not news. I know I’m on the downside of my career. It’s why I don’t want to spend the time I’ve got left
rotting on a bench.”
He looks at the grass beneath our feet and frowns. “Carter, what I mean is that, because of all those things, there weren’t a lot
of teams calling about you. Vegas is the only one who came to me with a reasonable offer. To be honest, most teams didn’t think
you had much left, so I got you the best deal out there.”
His words hit me like a punch straight to the gut. It drives the air from my lungs and leaves me feeling a little sick to my
stomach. To hear that no other team wanted me or think my skills have diminished that much is an absolute kick to the balls.
Knowing I’m on the downside of my career is one thing. Knowing that other teams feel that way too is something else entirely.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Carter. I just… I still believe you’ve got a few good years left too and the last thing I wanted to do
was take a whack at your confidence like that.” Lane sighs. “I just think this is a good situation here and that you can have a
bounce-back year. That's why I'm urging you to be patient. The kid has a ton of talent. But he's raw and isn't game-ready. It's
just a matter of time before JB sees that. You just need to be patient and you’re going to get your shot.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know JB and I know he wants to win. I also know he’s never started a rookie in his career. Like ever. And he hasn’t because
rookies aren’t used to the speed of the pro game,” Lane presses. “He wants to take the kid around the block a few times and see
what he’s got. That’s why the reps are going to him right now. You just have to wait. You’re going to get your chance to show
what you can do. I know you’ve still got some ball left in you, Carter. Just sit tight and wait for him to call your number.
Because he will.”
“Like I said, you don’t know that.”
“Have faith, man. Have faith.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, I’ve got a meeting, but I’ll touch base with you later. Just be ready. Your number is going to be called, and when that
happens, you need to be ready to capitalize on that moment. They brought you here for a reason. Don’t forget that.”
Lane pats me on the shoulder then turns and walks away, leaving me to the myriad of thoughts swirling around in my head. It
wasn’t until the moment those words came out of Lane’s mouth that the end of my career became truly real for me. Talking
about being in the twilight of my career is a reality, but it's still an abstract idea. Knowing there aren’t many teams out there
who think I have anything left to give makes it concrete for the very first time. And it isn’t a good feeling. Not at all.
“Fuck me,” I mutter to myself.
 4
CAMI

“W here’s Ashley today?” Carter asks.

“Oh. She had a family thing, so it looks like you’re stuck with me taping up your ankles today.”
I hide my cringe. That sounds stupid even to my own ears. Carter nods as he leans back on the table, and I turn around and walk
over to the cabinets. Mostly so he can’t see my face. My cheeks burn, and my heart races.
I fumble pulling the tape out of the cabinet, so I take a deep breath and try to slow myself down, silently telling myself to get a
grip. Quickly composing myself, I clear my throat, turn back around, and offer him the most professional smile. God, I hope it
doesn’t look as awkward as it feels on my face.
“You’re Cami, right?” Carter asks, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that washes over my body, making me shudder
deliciously.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“It’s nice to officially meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too. And I wanted to thank you again for stepping in the other day when Ryder… well… Thank you for
stepping in.”
“It looked like he was making you uncomfortable.”
“He was.”
“Was he trying to pressure you into a date?”
A rueful grin spreads across my lips. “I wish that’s all it was.”
“Oh,” he replies as if he understands. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”
“Thank you. And thank you again for getting me out of that mess.”
“You’re welcome.”
As I busy myself with the mundane task of taping up his ankles, I start to calm down. There is little more soothing than losing
yourself in routine work you’re so familiar with that you could do it blindfolded. As I do, I notice the surgical scars—one on
each of his knees.
“Tore my ACL in the left knee, my meniscus in the right,” he says, obviously noticing me looking at his scars.
“I know. You tore your ACL against Miami three years ago and your meniscus against Denver last year,” I reply without
thinking.
“Wow. Some people keep up with how many touchdowns I throw, but you keep up with my surgeries. I’m not sure whether to
be impressed or creeped out.” He chuckles.
My cheeks flare with heat again as I suddenly realize how that must sound. My eyes wide and my heart trying to beat its way
out of my chest, I raise my gaze to his only to find him looking back at me with a wide smile and those mesmerizing eyes. All of
a sudden, my heart stops dead in its tracks. I find myself wanting to dive into those eyes. Lose myself in them.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve just… I mean… I’ve been following you for your entire career. You were always my favorite player when
I was a kid.”
He recoils and a frown pulls the corners of his mouth down. “Since you were a kid. Wow. Way to make a guy feel old.”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that. T-that’s totally not how I meant it,” I stammer.
“Relax, I’m just teasing you," he says with a wry chuckle. “Sort of.”
I look down and try to gather my wits about me—an almost impossible feat with Carter sitting here looking at me and every
fantasy I’ve ever had about him scrolling through my head like a highlight reel. I clear my throat again and go back to taping his
ankle, trying to focus on the mundane and get these thoughts out of my mind. I’m painfully aware of his eyes on me, watching my
every movement. It's like his gaze has a physical weight that's pressing down on me, making it hard to concentrate. Making it
difficult to even breathe.
“So, you’ve watched me play since you were a kid, huh?” he asks, breaking the awkward tension in the air. “How old are you,
Cami?”
“Twenty-three. But I’ve been around the game all my life. I guess you could say I was born into it. I love the game.”
“Is that why you’re working here? To be around it?”
I shake my head. “No. Not really. I mean, I love being around the game, but I just graduated from school and need to get some
experience. I figured working on the training staff for a team would give me that.”
“Oh, where’d you go to school?”
“USC.”
He pulls a face. “I’ll try not to hold that against you. I’m just sad you went to such an inferior school.”
It makes me laugh. “Are you really going to play the college rivalry card on me? I mean was there even much of a rivalry way
back in the olden days when you were there?”
“Ouch. That hurts,” he says and laughs.
“Don’t mess with me, Cole. I’ve got claws.”
“I can see that.”
We laugh together and the conversation that flows from that feels natural and… well… normal. Strangely enough, he seems like
a normal guy and doesn’t seem like the prima donna most superstar athletes tend to act like. And just like that, the tension that
fills the air around us seems to dissipate, replaced by something more comfortable.
It’s strange, but a sense of ease between us develops. He’s a lot easier going than I would have imagined him to be and has a
decent sense of humor. His laugh and that twinkle in his eye only make him more attractive to me. I shift on my feet, desperately
trying to stem the tide that’s soaking my panties.
“So, what’s the plan when you’re done getting the experience you want here?” he asks.
“I’m going to open my own physical therapy clinic, focused on sports injury rehab. I want to help people.”
“I can see that. That seems to fit you.”
“That man you were speaking to out on the field yesterday—was that your agent or something?”
He nods. “How’d you know?”
“He just had that slick, slimy look most agents have.”
Carter laughs. “Yeah, I suppose he has that look, doesn’t he?”
“Was he just checking up on his prized client?”
The smile slips from his face, and he frowns. A look of sadness fills his eyes so poignant that sends a sharp sting through my
own heart. Carter Cole, always so full of swagger and bravado suddenly looks like a little boy lost. I never would have
imagined he could be, but he suddenly looks… vulnerable. It’s twisted, I know, but seeing that kind of emotion in him makes
me curious.
“What is it?” I ask.
He runs a hand across his face as if trying to wipe away the thick mélange of complex emotions and shakes his head. My hand
trembling and my heart racing, I reach out and put a hand on his upper arm, trying to silently convey that he can talk to me.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“Well, I can see that’s bullshit.”
“Can you, now?”
I nod. “I can. He obviously said something that shook you⁠—”
My eyes widening, I quickly bite off my words and look at him, unable to believe I let myself speak to him like that. He doesn't
know me. And of course, I don't know him. Things between us just feel comfortable and easy, and I stupidly let myself get
caught up in that.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You’re fine,” he replies gently. “And you’re right, what Lane said shook me.”
Though tempted to press him on what his agent told him that has him so shaken up, I remain silent. If Carter wants to tell me, he
will. He looks away, his gaze slightly unfocused as if he’s seeing something beyond this room. Beyond this moment.
“Lane told me that nobody wanted me. They think I’m too old and too broken to be the quarterback that won a pair of titles.”
The tone in his voice is something more than sad. It’s lost. I’ve seen it with athletes before. Many of them don’t know what to
do once their playing days are at an end. Few are prepared for the end of the ride and most fight it until their body literally
gives out. Most guys want to go out on their own terms, when they’re ready. Few get that chance. It explains why Carter looks
so forlorn right now. And it breaks my heart for him.
“You’re not too old or broken down,” I tell him, trying to sound encouraging. “You’re in better shape than half the guys on this
team, Carter. You’ve still got a few years of good football in you. I know you do.”
“If I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t played good football in a couple of years. Maybe on some level, I already knew
what Lane told me yesterday but just keep hanging on anyway because I’m not ready to walk away.”
“I’ll admit, you haven’t been yourself the last couple of seasons. You haven’t been playing with the same focus and confidence
I’m used to seeing from you,” I tell him. “But your skills haven’t diminished. You’ve still got that quick release, sharp
footwork, and the mental acuity to break down defenses on the fly. That championship-winning quarterback is still in there but
for whatever reason, you just haven’t let yourself play like the quarterback I know you are.”
He smiles. “Going to have mental health counseling in your physical therapy center?”
“I might. I’m thinking about it now.”
We share a laugh but when our eyes lock, our laughter fades away and the air around us suddenly seems to crackle with
electricity. With a sense of anticipation, my pulse races, and my belly lurches. As those blue eyes of his bore into mine and
seem to see straight through me, wetness gushes from between my legs. So wet, I’m irrationally afraid to look down at the floor
for fear of seeing myself standing in a puddle.
That electricity in the air sinks into my veins and makes my head spin. Before I know what I’m doing, I lean down and kiss
Carter. He stiffens and seems shocked at first, but a moment later, his tongue slides into my mouth, languidly swirling around
mine. I shudder as he runs his hand through my hair and grips the back of my head, pulling me tighter to him. Our kiss grows
hotter and more passionate as I lean into him, my small whimpers of pleasure getting lost in his mouth.
The sound of rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the floor in the hallway beyond the door of the training room sends a white-hot
jolt of fear shooting through me, and I quickly pull away and stand up rigidly straight. My cheeks are aflame with searing heat,
and my face is undoubtedly etched with guilt.
I look down at Carter.
“I-I’m so sorry⁠—”
“Don’t be,” he replies with a cocky grin. “In fact, you’re welcome to do that any time you want. Feel free.”
A nervous, stuttering laugh dribbles out of my mouth. I stand there frozen in place for a long moment, unable to think, let alone
move. I finally look down at his ankles and see that somehow, I managed to finish taping them up.
“You’re good to go. And I should probably go too.”
Without waiting for a reply, I bolt from the room and dash down the hallway. I make it to the bathroom without incident and
practically dive into one of the stalls and slam the door behind me. I put the lid down and take a seat then lean my head back
against the wall, willing my heart and breath to slow down. And when it finally does, I can’t help but smile to myself as I
realize I just fulfilled one of my childhood fantasies.
And it was every bit as amazing as I’d always hoped it would be.
 5
CARTER

S weat pours down my face, making my entire body slick.

My muscles are sore, and I’m still trying to get my wind back. It feels good, though. Today’s the first day I’ve been working
with the first unit while Ryder is standing on the sidelines watching for a change. My passes have been crisp, release quick,
and I’ve been moving around well.
It’s put a little wind back in my sails and has started to rebuild the confidence that felt chipped away and eroded after Lane
dropped that bombshell on me. It validates my belief in myself and my abilities and also makes me think that Cami was right.
That I still have something left to give. That I’m not done just yet.
“And go,” I call.
I take the snap from the center and take a seven-step drop before rifling a pass deep down the right sideline. It’s a dime and hits
my receiver in stride, letting him walk in for a touchdown.
“Beautiful ball, Carter,” Coach B says. “Now, run some crossers.”
“On it,” I reply.
Coach B, our offensive coordinator, and the team’s quarterbacks coach are huddled together behind me, discussing and
dissecting every aspect of my performance. I can feel their eyes on me and know I’m under the microscope. They haven’t said
anything one way or the other, and I know this is part of my audition for the starting job. Good thing I thrive on pressure. If I
folded when the heat got turned up, I never would have been able to lead my team to a pair of championships.
“And go,” I call.
Taking the snap, I take a three-step drop then fire a strike across the field, hitting my receiver square in the numbers, perfectly
in stride. The coaches give me a small round of applause. Meanwhile, Ryder stands off on the sideline by himself glowering at
me. Though tempted to give him the finger, I resist and manage to control myself. Ryder doesn’t have my self-control and
actually does give me the finger with a sneer on his lips. Realizing I might have looked that stupid and immature if I’d given in
to my impulse, I just shake my head and laugh.
As I regain my composure and get myself set up for the next drill, I see Cami emerge from the training facility. She stops to
speak with somebody else on the training staff. I continue watching her. The memory of the kiss we shared floods my mind, and
I can feel her lips on mine. I find myself reveling in the velvety feeling of her tongue on mine and tasting the mint on her breath
all over again. The sound of her small whimpers rings in my ears and before I know it, I feel myself stiffening.
“Cole,” Coach B yells. “Pull your head out of your ass and run the goddamn play.”
“Right,” I mutter and walk toward the line again.
As I lean down to take the snap, I see Cami look over at me and smile. It makes me wonder if the memories of our kiss are
rocketing around in her head the same way they’re rocketing through mine. More thoughts, far more impure than just a kiss, fill
my brain as I look at her. The feeling of her full, round tits pressed to my arm as she kissed me make me desperate to feel them
unleashed from her shirt and bra and in my hands. In my mouth.
“Cole, let’s go for fuck’s sake!” Coach B shouts.
“And go,” I call.
The center snaps the ball, but I’m still watching Cami from the corner of my eye. The ball bounces off my hands and hits the
ground, but when I move to snatch it up, I accidentally kick it and watch in horror as it goes skittering across the field.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter.
“Cole, what the fuck was that?” Coach B shouts.
“Hands are slick. My bad.”
I make a point of grabbing the towel tucked into the waistband of my shorts and wiping my hands. My eyes keep drifting over to
Cami, who’s walking toward the field we’re on. She’s trying to appear casual, but she keeps stealing glances at me, which of
course, disrupts my focus yet again. I give myself a small shake of my head and try to concentrate.
“Let’s go. Run the play,” Coach B calls.
Glancing at Cami one last time, I turn and walk back over and get under center again. And once again, the memories of that
stolen kiss slam into my mind. Gritting my teeth, I try to push them out of my head, and even though I know I shouldn't, I call for
the snap.
“And go.”
The snap is clean, and I take a five-step drop and then unload. Already knowing I fucked up, I put my hands on my hips and
watch as the bail sails downfield, overshooting the receiver by a good ten yards. When it hits the ground and bounces away, I
lower my head.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Jesus Christ, Cole. What the fuck was that?” Coach B shouts.
“Sorry, Coach. Still working on my timing.”
He consults with the other coaches and a heavy feeling settles into the bottom of my gut. I already know what he’s going to say
before he says it.
“Okay, that’s good for now, Cole,” he calls. “Let’s get Simmons in.”
Yanking off my chin strap, I head for the sidelines. The rookie passes me on the way onto the field with a shit-eating grin on his
face and chuckles.
“Nice job, old man,” he says. “I think you just made me QB1.”
“Fuck off.”
I take my spot on the sideline and watch him sling his first pass with a deft touch and some real pepper on it. Dammit, he may
be right. I can’t help but feel like I just fumbled away the chance I was given.
“Fuck,” I mutter again.

I shower after practice, throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and head into the trainer’s room to get some treatment on my
knee. The doctors tell me it’s a little arthritic, mostly because of my injuries, but having played football for more than twenty
years now, the wear and tear is taking a toll.
The treatment the training staff gives me helps take the edge off the worst of the pain. Knocking on the door, I open it and stop. I
look at the nameplate on the door just to make sure I didn't wander into the wrong office.
“Sorry,” I say. “Nestor was supposed to work on my knee.”
Cami smiles and shrugs. “And once again, you are stuck with me. Nestor was called away and asked me to fill in.”
“So, you can do more than just tape ankles.”
“I can do a lot more than tape ankles⁠—”
Cami bites off her words, and her face reddens as she realizes how that statement sounds coming out of her mouth. I laugh and
close the door to the office then walk over and hop up on the table. I lean back and stretch out my right leg.
“Do you know what Nestor does for my knee?”
She nods. “He always writes down his treatment plans. I got you covered.”
“I have no doubt I’m in good hands.”
As she steps over to the table and starts working on my knee, I close my eyes and try to keep myself from thinking about that
kiss. It’s not easy to do with her hands on me.
“You looked out of sync out on the field today.”
I chuckle softly. “I was doing fine for most of the session.”
“What happened?”
“You walked out, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. Fucked with my rhythm and timing.”
Her fingers falter on my knee, and I open my eyes to find her looking back at me with an awkward, trembling smile on her lips.
She blinks slowly and looks away.
“I—I’m sorry?” she says.
“Don’t be. But tell me something… have you thought about it?”
“Of course, I have. Like… a lot. But I know that’s a line I can’t cross⁠—”
I don’t let her finish that statement. Grabbing her by the back of the neck, I pull her to me. Our mouths crash together, and though
she seems hesitant at first, Cami quickly melts into me. Our tongues writhe furiously together in her mouth, and I slide my hand
down her back, cupping her firm, round ass. It’s everything I thought it would be. Cami groans as I squeeze it then slide my
hand down the back of her shorts, reveling in the feel of her soft, warm skin.
Slipping off the table, I grab Cami under the arms and lift her, sitting her down on the spot I just vacated. Our kiss is desperate.
Frantic. I slide my hands up her shirt, trailing the tips of my fingers across her flat, taut belly. I cup her tits in my hands and give
them a firm squeeze as I circle my thumbs around her stiff nipples through the fabric of her bra. Her body is soft and supple, her
skin smooth and flawless. And as I run my hands all over her, my cock stiffens uncomfortably in my shorts.
Stepping back from her, I push her shirt up then reach around and quickly unsnap her bra. Her full tits spill into my hands. I
knead and squeeze them, savoring the feeling of those soft, round breasts. Leaning down, I take one of her nipples into my
mouth. She gasps and as I flick my tongue across her stiff nipple, sucking on it and nipping it with my teeth. Cupping her breast
in my hand, I take her other nipple into my mouth, taking my time and relishing the feel of it against my tongue.
I look up at Cami and her face is red, her eyes wide and filled with fire. Her mouth hangs open, her breathing heavy. She looks
torn between telling me to stop, knowing we shouldn’t be doing this, but another part of her seems to want it desperately.
Reaching down, I deftly unbutton her shorts and pull them down as I sink to my knees before her. I slide my hands up her legs,
roughly part her thighs, and pull her forward.
My eyes linger on her wet, swollen slit, a small, trimmed landing strip of ash-brown hair just above those velvety folds that
glisten beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the office. Cami is looking down at me, her face etched with desire, her bottom
lip caught between her teeth. A small smile on my lips, I lean forward and part her lips with the tip of my tongue. The moment
my tongue touches her sex, Cami’s entire body stiffens and a low groan bursts from her mouth.
Sliding my hands around, I grip her ass and pull her to me as I lap at her warm, wet center furiously. The scent and taste of her
sex are intoxicating, and I bury my tongue even deeper into that sweet little hole. Cami grips my hair, pulling it hard enough to
make me wince as she writhes against my face, the slickness of it against my mouth driving me fucking wild. The pain of her
yanking on my hair only heightens the intensity of the pleasure coursing through me as I eat her tight little pussy.
“Oh my god,” she moans.
I nip at her swollen, throbbing button, and Cami's entire body twitches. Her grip on my hair tightens when I slide two fingers
into her dripping wet opening. As I suck on her clit, I drive my fingers into her, hard and fast. Stuttering moans drift from her
mouth as I bang her with wild abandon while I lick and suck on her sensitive bud. Cami’s body shakes and her moans and
whimpers grow louder. She pushes the back of my head, forcing my face down onto her as she grinds herself against my mouth.
My cock has never been stiffer than it is right now. It’s painful and begging for release.
I keep eating her pussy, too caught up in how much I enjoy her scent and the silky feel of her lips against my tongue to stop. Her
body is taut and trembling, and her breath is a stuttering moan. I know she's close. She twists her fingers in my hair, pulling it
even harder, the pain that makes me wince also makes my cock throb even harder. I press my face forward, burying my tongue
as deep inside of her as I can, and Cami gasps.
“Fuck, Carter. Oh my god, oh my god…”
I lick and lap at her sex while she shakes wildly. I know she’s on the verge of a powerful orgasm and slide a pair of fingers
back into her molten core as I take her clit back into my mouth. My tongue and fingers working in tandem, I lick and fingerfuck
her with long, powerful strokes. Cami throws her head back and bites down hard on the side of her hand as she comes. Her
entire body spasms and her voice, though stifled, is still loud as she cries out with pleasure.
Watching her thrash and writhe on the treatment table has me so fucking turned on. I stand up and start to fumble with my shorts,
fully intending to fuck her right then and there. Cami is looking at me, practically pleading with her eyes, urging me to bury my
staff in her warm, waiting slit then fuck her hard. But the sound of a door slamming shut in the hall beyond the door and voices
talking and laughing together kill that plan.
“Shit,” I mutter.
With a sharp squeak, Cami jumps down off the table and quickly finds her panties and shorts. We both get our clothes back on
and arranged again, but the flush in Cami’s cheeks is a dead giveaway. Anybody who walks in right now and sees her like that
is going to know something had just happened between us. For the sake of her reputation, I know I need to bail.
“To be continued,” I say.
“I hope so.”
I lean down and kiss her again then reluctantly pull away and head out of the treatment office. As I leave the stadium, the only
thing on my mind is getting home and jerking off, hoping that will alleviate the discomfort in my painfully rigid member.
 6
CAMI

I haven’t stopped smiling and feel like I’m floating on air.

All day, I’ve been thinking about what happened between me and Carter in the therapy room yesterday. Not in my wildest,
hottest fantasies when I was younger did I ever actually think those dreams of mine would ever come true. I never actually
imagined I’d end up having sex with Carter Cole. Not that we had sex. Not exactly. Much to my disappointment.
Having him go down on me was the hottest experience of my life. The only thing that would have made it better was Carter
inside of me. He was so generous and made me feel amazing. Most guys are more concerned with their own pleasure and
making sure they get theirs without ever worrying about whether the woman they’re with gets hers. Not that I have any real-
world experience with having lovers—I’m a virgin, after all—but that’s what my girlfriends all tell me when they’re
complaining about their boyfriends.
Carter wasn’t that way at all. He wasn’t how my girlfriends described their boyfriends. Not at all. He seemed more invested in
my pleasure than in his own. It was almost as if my getting off was exciting enough to get him off.
It was an incredible first experience. Mind-blowing, really. The orgasm Carter gave me was more intense than anything I’ve
ever given myself. It’s like comparing a firecracker to a nuclear bomb going off. I can only imagine what having actual sex with
him will be like.
That thought going through my head brings a goofy smile to my lips and a rush of heat to my face.
I know I shouldn’t rush into anything with Carter simply because I don’t know yet whether there’s a genuine connection
between us, or if I’m simply letting myself get caught up in all those adolescent feelings and emotions he’s stirring up within
me. I don’t want to sleep with him just because my teenage self would have given anything to.
Still, he’s not like most of these other spoiled, entitled guys I deal with on a daily basis. He’s cocky, no question about it. But I
think to be successful in something like pro sports, you have to believe in yourself deeper than anybody else believes in you.
You have to be a little arrogant. To be a pro athlete, you’ve got to have an edge. You have to carry yourself with a certain
swagger. I think that’s true of any successful person and not necessarily just pro athletes. It’s for some reason just more visible
in sports stars.
The thing that’s different about Carter is that he has all those things but he isn’t a prick about it. He doesn’t act like a spoiled or
entitled frat boy. Like Ryder Simmons does. The simple fact that Carter was so offended by Ryder coming after me like he did
that he stepped in and put himself in harm’s way to protect me is enough to tell me he’s different. Maybe he was more like
Ryder coming out of college and his first few seasons in the league, but I have to assume that time has matured him and made
him think about how he affects those around him. At least, that’s what I’ve seen in him in the few interactions we’ve shared.
“And what has you smiling so wide?”
Ashley’s voice pulls me out of my reverie and brings my focus back to the present. She’s another of the trainers who came on
board around the same time I did, and we’ve become pretty good friends. I like Ashley a lot. No matter how much I trust her
though—and I do—I know I can’t tell her about Carter. I know I have to keep that to myself. Not because I think she’ll go blab
but because if it gets out, I’ll sink. My dad would be so disappointed in me, and that’s something I wouldn’t be able to bear.
“Nothing in particular,” I tell her. “I guess I’m just in a good mood today.”
“Well, give me some of whatever you’re on then. I’m going to need it. Jonah assigned me to the practice field today.”
“Well, it is your turn.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
“Come on, it’s not that bad. You’re out in the sun and getting some fresh air.”
"And dealing with ninety grown-ass men who act like five-year-old children."
“There is that,” I say with a laugh. “Tell you what. I know how much you hate it so I’ll take the field duty for you today.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. But you owe me for this.”
Ashley squeals and pulls me into a tight embrace as she thanks me profusely. I let her. Although it’s not quite the altruistic act
she seems to think it is. Being out on the field means being closer to Carter, and that’s where I kind of want to be. I’m not going
to tell her that. I know it seems a little stalkery, but I want to figure out what's going on inside my head when it comes to Carter
and the only way to do that is to be around him.
“You’re the best, Cami! I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do,” I reply with a laugh.
I walk back to my office and grab my field bag then bounce through the building with a spring in my step. The heat outside
immediately makes me regret my decision. We've got an indoor practice field that's temperature-controlled, and the day is split
between being in there and out here. My father likes to make the guys sweat. He says he doesn’t like anybody to ever be too
comfortable. Says it toughens them up.
I pick a spot near the far end of the bench then go through my usual routine of taping ankles and treating small wounds for the
guys who need my help. All the while, I subtly keep my eyes on Carter. He’s working with the presumptive first team and is
looking the part of the QB1. His passes have some zip to them. His footwork is terrific, and he’s hitting his receivers in stride.
He looks like a man with a little pep in his step, and I can’t help but wonder if our little session in the training room is fueling
his performance.
It’s a silly thought, I know. He’s a professional athlete, and this is what he does. It’s probably ridiculous to think that fooling
around with me is helping his performance on the field. Still, it’s a nice thought and I can’t help but wonder.
“I don’t know, dude. The old man’s lookin’ sharp today.”
I look up to see another of our rookie draft picks, Jalen Mills, standing with Ryder a few yards away from me. Judging by the
glower on Ryder’s face, he’s less than thrilled with the receiver’s assessment of Carter’s performance. I shouldn’t be
eavesdropping on their conversation, but I’m a naturally curious person and can’t keep myself from listening in.
“Anybody can have a good day, man,” Ryder says. “This clown’s time is over. It’s time for some new blood.”
“And I suppose you think that’s you?” Jalen teases.
"Damn right, it's me."
“Well, if the old man keeps playin’ like this, you may be ridin’ the pine for a while. You know how Coach B feels about playin’
rookie QBs.”
“Then I guess we’re just going to have to convince Coach B that the old man’s time is over and that he needs to rethink that
position.”
"And how are we going to do that?"
“Us young guys need to stick together.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m going to talk to a few of the other young bucks, and we all need to do our part to take control of this team,” Ryder
says. “We need to start working together to make the old man look bad. Make it look like he’s not throwing us good balls.”
Though tempted to intervene, I know there’s nothing I can do. Ryder’s plot to make Carter look bad and take the starting job
from him is disgusting and infuriating. The best thing I can do right now is listen to the details and, from there, figure out how to
handle it.
“Bro, that’s going to come back on me. I ain’t like you. I have to work to make the roster. I ain’t tryin’ to make myself look bad
just to make sure you win your job.”
“Jay, eventually, they are going to hand me the keys to this team. Be it now or next season—there will come a time when this
team is mine,” Ryder growls. “And when it is, who do you think I’m more likely going to throw the ball to—somebody who
helped me get the job or somebody who turned their back on me when I needed help?”
“Dude, come on.”
Ryder shrugs. “You want to put up numbers? You want to get paid when your rookie deal runs out? You better help me then.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“That’s just how it is.”
“Yeah, whatever. Fine.”
With a disgusted look on his face, Jalen turns and stalks off, leaving Ryder looking after him with a satisfied smirk on his face.
The rookie turns, looks at me, and tips me a wink.
“You change your mind yet?” he asks and mimes a blowjob.
Without a word, I get up and walk across the field, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. The guy makes my
skin crawl. Once I’m on the other sideline, I see my father standing with a couple of his coaches. I walk over to them and stand
patiently off to the side. When his little meeting breaks up, I step forward.
"Coach," I call. "Can I have a word?"
“Of course,” he replies, his tone cool and professional. “Walk with me.”
We turn and walk down the sideline toward the far end zone, steering clear of the knots of people milling about on the field.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“I just overheard Ryder talking to Jalen about sabotaging Carter,” I tell him. “He wants Jalen and the younger guys to make
Carter look bad so you’ll have no choice but to hand the job to him.”
My father chuckles. “Young guys talk shit all the time. You know that.”
“This is different. They’re seriously going to try to undermine him.”
“Like I said, young guys talk shit. That’s what they do. When push comes to shove, nobody is going to hurt the team for the sake
of personal advancement. Especially not guys like Jalen who have to fight to even make the roster.”
“They were very serious. At least, Ryder is.”
He stops and puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “If something like that is up, I’ll handle it. I doubt those kinds of palace
intrigues are going to happen, but I promise I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“Dad—”
“That’s enough, Cami. I said I’d deal with it. I appreciate you bringing it to my attention, but I’ve got it now. I’ll take care of
things on the football side. You just make sure you and your team are keeping my players healthy.”
He offers me a kind smile, but I frown and look away, frustrated because I know he’s not hearing me. This is another of those
situations where he’s more concerned with upsetting the ecosystem than he is with nipping a serious problem in the bud.
“Are we good?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Why are you so concerned about Carter Cole all of a sudden anyway?”
“I just don’t like seeing people get screwed by underhanded bullshit, Dad. What’s your infatuation with Ryder Simmons?”
“He’s the future of the franchise, Cami. And honestly, we haven’t had a winning season here in a while, and I’m afraid if we
don’t right the ship quickly, ownership is going to decide it’s time to move on.”
My dad isn’t one who has ever worried about job security—he’s been a winner everywhere he’s gone. But I know he loves it
here in the desert. He’s built a home here and hopes to finish out his career with Vegas. Hearing him suddenly sound insecure
about his job status is new, and it hurts my heart for him. But that still doesn’t mean I’m willing to accept him turning a blind
eye to something so underhanded happening on this team or allowing somebody to cheat to get ahead.
“I think Carter is your best bet to build a winner again,” I tell him. “He’s got the skills and the temperament. Ryder may have
the skills, but he doesn’t have the maturity. Not yet.”
“I promise I’ll keep an eye on things,” he says with a gentle smile.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Good girl. Now, I need to go run some drills.”
He walks off to join his players, leaving me here to stew in my frustration. I reported the situation, and realistically, I know
I’ve done all I can do. I’ve got no power or authority to do anything. I hate feeling so helpless. So powerless. But more than
anything, I hate that Carter is going to get screwed over by the younger guys and not be able to stop it. It's not fair.
I walk away, silently vowing to find some way to bring Ryder Simmons down. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’m
going to expose him for what he is.
 7
CARTER

C hewing on an onion ring, I watch the rain fall outside the small diner I’m sitting in.
I’ve always loved the rain and loud, violent storms. Thunder cracks like a cannon going and so much lightning flashes
overhead. It’s almost like there’s a cosmic strobe light flashing in the sky. It’s definitely a strong storm rolling. Unfortunately, it
hasn’t cooled off much, leaving the air outside humid and sweltering. That’s something I can do without.
“Of all the gin joints in all the world.”
I look up, surprised to see Cami standing beside my table, a smile on her face. I take in the way her breasts strain against her
light tracksuit jacket and how the black cotton leggings hug her incredible ass. My cock twitches at the sight.
“So, you found your way to Mac’s,” she says.
“I wasn’t aware this was a destination.”
“Any local worth their salt knows and eats at Mac’s.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. Mac's is a mecca for milkshake aficionados. They make the best milkshakes in the entire country.”
A small grin curls the corners of my mouth, and I chuckle. “I noticed they had a pretty expansive milkshake menu.”
“That’s what they’re known for.”
“The onion rings are pretty good too,” I say, holding one up.
“You can’t go wrong with anything on the menu.”
She slides into the booth across from me and looks out at the rain pounding down on the pavement outside. Mac’s is a fifties-
style diner with black and white tile, red vinyl booths and cushions, a lunch counter, and lots of chrome everywhere. The
waitresses all wear poodle skirts with white blouses and look like pinup girls.
“So, are you stalking me now?” I ask with a grin on my lips.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I told you, this is the place for a good meal and a milkshake. I usually drop in a couple of times a
week.”
“You’re tiny. I find that hard to believe.”
“I work out a lot. Plus, I’m not much of a cook, so Mac’s is always a good option. It’s pretty much my go-to.”
“Well, the bacon cheeseburger was pretty damn good, I’ll give it that.”
“You should have had the steak sandwich. It's life-changing.”
“Well, maybe I’ll try that next time.”
Cami looks at my mostly empty plate and frowns, looking almost disappointed that I’m finishing up my meal. I can still taste
her on my lips. Her womanly scent fills my nose and the sound of her moans and whimpers rings in my ears. With that assault
on my memory and my senses, I feel myself getting stiff. Thank Christ there’s a table covering me.
I’m trying to push the images out of my mind, but all I can think about is tasting her again. All I want right now is to feel that
narrow mouth of hers on me and my rigid staff sinking deep into that sweet, wet little slit between her thighs. Her cheeks are
flushed, and she’s squirming in her seat. I see the hunger in her eyes and wonder if she’s having similar thoughts.
“So, are you about to take off?” she asks brightly.
“Apparently, I’m going to have to stick around and have one of these milkshakes to see if you’ve got good taste or you’re just
blowing smoke.”
“Good idea,” she says with a sultry smile and a twinkle in her eye.
The waitress comes by and takes our order. As she eats and I drink my shake, Cami and I talk about everything and nothing in
particular. I learn a lot about her. She’s incredibly intelligent and has a wicked, sometimes dark sense of humor that really
meshes with mine. There’s a natural chemistry between us that I can’t deny, and the more I learn about Cami, the more I find
myself wanting all of her. Not as a hook-up. Not as a girlfriend. But as my wife. Jesus, what’s going on with me?
I’m enjoying the time we’re spending together, and as she finishes up her meal, I find that I’m not ready for the evening to end.
“You’re looking good in practice,” she says.
“Not sure it’s going to matter,” I reply glumly. “I’m getting the feeling Coach B is pretty set on starting Ryder this season. Hell,
maybe he’s right and I just shouldn’t fight it anymore.”
She looks at me, her eyes narrow, an inscrutable expression on her face.
“What?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I just didn’t think you were the sort who wallowed in self-pity.”
“There’s a difference between self-pity and acknowledging reality. At this stage of my career, the staff feels I’m more of a
mentor rather than a player. They want me to groom and guide the kid and show him how to be a pro QB.”
“From what I’ve seen, you’ve still got the goods.”
“Then I think you should be setting the depth chart.”
“So, that’s it? You’re just going to give up and accept sitting on the bench?”
“What else am I going to do?”
“Fight,” she says simply. “Fight for your spot.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?”
“Aside from wallowing in self-pity?” she asks with a sly grin.
“And what would you have me do, Cami?”
“I would have you force Coach B to sit up and take notice. I’d have you show him you still have some good football left in you
—because you do, Carter. I would have you show him you are the better choice atop the depth chart and show him that starting
Ryder would be a mistake. He has talent, I can’t say otherwise. But he doesn’t have the maturity to lead this team anywhere.
Starting him now would be a mistake that could set the franchise back years. He would benefit from sitting on the bench for a
season or two and learning from you.”
“That is a fantastic speech and I agree with the sentiment wholeheartedly. Unfortunately for us, neither one of us is setting the
depth chart.”
“Wow. I never once thought of you as somebody who’d quit when things got tough. Color me more than a little disappointed.”
A wry grin crosses my lips. “Yeah, well, I guess I seem to be making a habit of disappointing people these days.”
“I’m shocked, Carter. I thought you were a competitor and somebody who never quit. Your relentlessness was always
something I admired.”
“Maybe I’m just tired of having to fight so hard to prove myself.”
“I seem to recall you saying once that being a pro football player, you’ve got to prove yourself every single day, on and off the
field,” she says. “You also said you would never back down from that challenge, and you’d keep playing with that chip on your
shoulder to the bitter end of your career and that you’d always go down fighting.”
I laugh softly. “That was from an interview a long time ago. Your memory is kind of scary.”
She looks down for a minute and shakes her head. I can see the disappointment etched into her face and feel a stab of guilt
pierce my heart. Weirdly enough, knowing she’s disappointed in me cuts me deeply. For some reason, even though we barely
know one another, Cami’s opinion of me matters.
We seem to have really connected, and perhaps because of that, I find myself caring about what she thinks of me. The fact that
she recalls something I said years ago at this point tells me she feels that connection too… had probably felt it even before I
did.
As I look at her, I feel a fire ignite in my belly. The warmth from those flames spread outward, flowing through my veins and
running through my entire body. That fire fills me with a heat that’s been missing from my life for a long time. It’s been missing
for so long that I’m only just now feeling its absence.
In that moment, I realize that I’ve simply been going through the motions and playing out the string on my career. I know now
that I’ve just been marking time and waiting for the end of my career to come.
The disappointment on her face is cutting. But the desire to keep from seeing that look feels like it’s breathing new life into the
fires inside of me—fires that had burned so low so long ago, they’ve been all but dormant. The desire that’s been missing
suddenly springs to life and has me refocusing on the game that I’ve loved for so long. That connection I feel for Cami has me
wanting to leave the game with my head up, in a way that will make her proud of me—and make me proud of myself.
“Listen, I should go,” I tell her. “I need to get deeper into the playbook. I need to know all the calls and all my reads before
practice.”
She looks up at me. “I thought you were content just playing babysitter?”
“Maybe I’m changing my mind.”
Her smile nearly stops my heart. “Good boy. Go. Study.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I get to my feet and throw enough money onto the table to cover both of our checks. She gives me a thankful smile then pulls out
her phone and starts to tap away at the screen.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Calling for an Uber.”
“No, you’re not. Come on. Let me give you a lift.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I know it’s not. But I’m doing it anyway. Let’s go.”
“Thank you. That’s really sweet of you.”
“Yeah, well, don’t go telling anybody. I’ve got a rep to protect.”
We both laugh, and she gets to her feet and follows me to the door. She grabs her umbrella from a basket beside the door, and
as we step outside, she opens it. Holding it with one hand, she smiles at me then grabs my hand with her other.
“Ready?” she chirps.
I look at our intertwined fingers for a moment and can’t say it doesn’t feel good, so I give her a nod.
“Ready,” I say. “Let’s go.”
 8
CARTER

W ith the rain thundering down around us, we dash across the lot, and I usher her into the passenger side of my truck.
Slamming the door, I sprint around to the other side and slide behind the wheel. An ear-splitting crash of thunder booms
overhead and the deluge seems to get louder and harder.
“It’s really coming down,” she says.
Beads of rain dot Cami’s ash-brown locks and spill down her smooth, soft cheeks. There’s something about her wet hair and
slightly parted, full red lips that makes her look even sexier. She looks at me with that hunger still in her eyes and my heart
slams against my ribcage as my cock thickens in my shorts. I reach for her, slide my hand around the back of her neck, and pull
her to me. Our mouths crash together, and she slides her tongue into my mouth eagerly as she grabs hold of the sides of my face.
She wants this as much as I do.
The rain pounds down on the roof overhead, nearly drowning out our breathy moans as our kiss grows more frantic. My hands
roam her body, and I squeeze her full tits through the fabric of her jacket. She grabs my hand and guides it down to her lap. She
fumbles my hand into her pants, and I quickly find her wet, swollen cleft. Cami presses her head back against the headrest as I
slide a finger into her tight, little slit, driving it deep into her.
“Fuck, Carter. Yes, baby,” she groans.
I rub her clit with my thumb and continue pumping my finger into her sex. It’s tighter than hell and dripping wet, and when I
slide a second finger into her, Cami cries out then leans forward and kisses me ferociously. She bites my bottom lip, slides her
hand down, and grabs my cock through my shorts, gripping and stroking it through the fabric. She quickly unbuttons my shorts
and slides her hand into my boxers, wrapping her fingers around my thick shaft.
With her soft, delicate fingers around me, I squeeze my eyes shut and shudder as she starts to stroke me. I continue pumping my
fingers into her, and Cami squeezes my dick as hard as she can, making me groan as her hand slides up and down my shaft. The
rain thunders down on the car, the deluge so thick, that I doubt anybody can see through the windows, which is probably a good
thing. The last thing I want is to put on a live sex show for the people in the diner’s parking lot. I’m kinky, but I’m not that
kinky.
I plunge my fingers as deeply as I can when Cami’s entire body tightens. A long, shuddering breath bursts from her mouth as she
trembles. With one hand still around my cock, she uses her other to grab hold of my wrist, writhing against my hand as she
comes hard. Slowly, her body unclenches, and I pull my fingers out of her pussy then slip them into my mouth to savor the taste.
Her breath is ragged, and she’s staring at me with wide eyes and a shaky smile on her face.
“That was amazing,” she gasps.
“Take your pants off. Now.”
She quickly kicks her shoes off, shimmies out of her leggings, and rips off her jacket. Fuck. She’s not wearing a bra. Sliding my
shorts down, I pull her over onto my lap and make her straddle me in the driver’s seat. Pushing Cami’s t-shirt up, I lick and
suck on her stiff nipples, gently grazing them with my teeth and drawing a shudder from her.
Grabbing hold of my stiff rod, I brush it back and forth against Cami’s button. She looks down at me with her lips slightly
parted, hunger burning in her face. I nestle the head of my cock between her slick folds then put my hands on her hips and push
her down, the feeling of her wet inner walls sliding along my staff sending waves of fire shooting through my veins.
She winces and bites her bottom lip, seeming to be gripped by pain. Given how tight she is and that flash of pain in her face, it
hits me that she’s a virgin.
“Oh shit,” I say. “Cami⁠—”
“It’s fine. I want this, Carter. I-I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
She pushes herself down, taking every inch of me into her and stopping. I don’t move. I barely even breathe. But she grips my
shoulders and looks at me with a trembling smile on her lips as the pained expression fades and is quickly replaced by
something like awe.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Oh my god, that feels amazing,” she whispers.
With my hands still on her hips, I let Cami take the lead. And she does. Moving slowly at first, she rises and falls on my cock,
her eyes closed, her head thrown back. I’m stiffer than ever as I watch her riding me. Cami grinds her hips down, taking me
deeper, her moans growing louder and more insistent. She digs her fingers into my shoulders, her rhythm picking up. I push her
shirt up and take her tits into my hands and mouth as she fucks me.
Her pussy is wrapped tight around my shaft and the sensation of her sliding up and down on my cock makes my entire body
crackle with carnal electricity that’s driving me out of my mind. It feels too fucking good. With one tit in my mouth, I slide my
hands around and grip her tight little ass, giving it a firm smack that draws a sharp yelp from Cami. She looks at me with a
salacious smile on her lips as she bounces herself up and down on my rod.
Still gripping my wrist, Cami rolls her hips harder, her breath coming out in wheezing gasps, but with a look of absolute
rapture on her face. Her body stiffens and her nails dig into my shoulders even harder. Cami cries out, her voice reverberating
around the cab of the truck, and she trembles wildly as she comes. She slumps forward, her forehead pressed to mine, a wide,
shaky smile on her lips.
“Oh my god, that was intense,” she whispers. “It’s your turn now.”
She kisses me again then starts to roll her hips, sliding up and down on my cock. My every nerve ending crackles like live
wires. Cami presses her mouth to mine again, shoving her tongue in my mouth, as she starts to move harder and faster on top of
me. I feel my balls tightening and my belly churning, and I know I'm not going to last much longer.
I give Cami’s ass another hard slap and she moans. “Yes, Daddy. Just like that.”
We both pause and look at each other for a moment. She seems as surprised to hear that come out of her mouth as I was to hear
it. But there’s something about hearing something so dirty from that sweet, innocent little mouth that makes my cock swell even
more.
“Say it again,” I say, my voice thick with need. “Say it again and fuck me harder, baby girl.”
“Yes, Daddy. Fuck yes.”
One hand on her hip, helping guide her movements, I use my other hand to slap her ass again. She squeals and moans, throwing
her head back as she shoves those full, round tits in my face again. Cami pulses around my dick. It’s suddenly too much, and I
press my head back into the seat and grunt as I thrust my hips upward. My cock twitches and I erupt inside of her, filling her
with my hot cream.
A sultry look on her face, Cami clenches and unclenches her pussy, milking every last drop out of me. And when I finally
soften, she leans forward again, her eyes locked onto mine. We’re both trembling and breathing hard, and my mind is spinning
with what just happened.
The feelings swirling around me are so intense, feelings I’m completely unfamiliar with, that I’m not sure what to do with them
right now. It’s hard for me to explain this influx of unfamiliar emotions, but it’s almost as if she somehow unlocked a door
inside of me that I never even knew was there.
I don’t understand what I’m feeling right now, but I know that I like it. That I want more of it. All I know is I want more of
Cami.
“That was incredible,” she says softly.
“It really was. You are incredible⁠—”
I bite off my words, unsure why I said that. But the look of warmth that spreads across Cami’s face tells me they were the right
words. She leans forward and gives me another kiss. And as she does, the torrent of rain that had been pounding on the roof
lightens and a break in the clouds allows a beam of sunlight to spotlight us in the interior of my truck.
Cami slips into the passenger seat and starts to wriggle into her leggings again. I watch with waves of tenderness descending
over me. The emotions threatening to overwhelm me are completely foreign. But they somehow feel… right. They somehow
feel natural.
I don’t know what to make of them just yet, but I resolve to figure them out. For now, I’m just going to enjoy the ride.
 9
CAMI

“G rab some lunch later?” Ashley asks as she pokes her head into the training office.
“Sounds good,” I say. “You out on field duty today?”
“I am indeed. I’ll come get you when I take my afternoon break.”
“I’ll be here.”
She smiles at me before she leaves, and I go back to stocking the tape and supplies in the cabinets. It won’t be long before the
players start filing in to get prepped for practice this morning, so I want to be ready. As I work, I hum a song to myself, unable
to keep the smile off my face. My body is a little bit sore after yesterday but in a good way. A really good way. Images of being
with Carter flash through my mind, and my body tingles deliciously.
Sex with Carter was every bit as amazing as I always imagined it would be. Just as incredible as the way I fantasized about it
for all these years. Granted, in a car in a public parking lot might not have been my first choice of location for it—or my first
time in general.
At the same time, I can’t deny just how hot and sexy it was. A lot about yesterday surprised me. From how turned on I was by
having him spank me to calling him “Daddy.” Everything about what we did was dirty… but also sexy. Suffice it to say, I
learned a lot about myself yesterday.
It’s not something I ever imagined coming out of my mouth. But somehow, it came out and just felt right. Carter was shocked at
first, but judging by his smile and the way his cock swelled inside of me, he obviously liked it. A lot. And his reaction only
fueled my own desire the way mine had fueled his.
Just thinking about it makes my lady parts pulse and grow wet all over again. My cheeks flush and I laugh softly to myself as I
try to banish those thoughts while I’m at work. I need to calm down, focus, and be as professional as I can be while I’m here.
No matter how hard I try to push those thoughts out of my head though, they keep coming back. Even worse, I find myself
wondering if that’s a one-off or if the connection I feel with Carter is reciprocated. Maybe we can get to do that—and more—
again.
Aside from the mind-blowing sex, I enjoy spending time with him. He's a funny, interesting man. I enjoyed the simple
conversation we had at Mac's. Despite our age difference, I was surprised to find that we have a lot in common. Even if there
wasn’t this attraction and chemistry between us, I wouldn’t mind just sitting and talking to him over coffee.
I shake my head. That’s something that will get sorted out one way or another, and I just need to relax and let it all play out. The
last thing I need to do is try to force the issue. That won’t do anybody any good. Not at all.
“You seem like you’re in a good mood.”
Ryder’s voice from the doorway behind me sends a cold chill racing down my spine. My body stiffens and I bristle. I turn
around to see him walking in and taking a seat at the table.
“Need my ankles taped,” he says.
I nod but remain silent, gathering the necessary supplies and then setting to work. While I do, I feel Ryder’s eyes on me. My
whole body is tight with tension, but I’m determined to do my job and not let him bother or intimidate me. I give him a nice,
tight wrap and tape him up.
“That should do it,” I say.
He slips off the table but doesn’t leave, just stands beside the table, looking at me with a smarmy smile on his face that makes
my skin crawl.
“So, when are we going out?” he asks.
“We’re not. You’re done. You can go now.”
“Come on. Just let me take you out to dinner. And who knows? Maybe you’ll enjoy it so much, you’ll stay for breakfast too.”
“Does that ever actually work on women who don’t have self-esteem issues?”
He chuckles. “You’re a tough nut to crack. But you know what they say—that just makes the meat even sweeter.”
“That’s disgusting and completely inappropriate. I finished with your tape, Ryder. Please get out of my office.”
He steps closer to me, and I take a step back, trying to keep some distance between us. But the office isn’t very big, so it’s not
like I can go very far. I glance at the doorway but don’t see or hear anybody in the hallway who might be able to help me.
Ryder is also blocking my way. There’s no way I can get around him and out of the office without him stopping me if that’s
what he intends to do. And judging by the look on his face, I think it might be.
“Ryder, leave the office or I’ll⁠—”
“You’ll what? Call the coach? Call who?” he sneers. “Do you really think they’d do anything to me even if you did?”
“Ryder—”
“I’m the future of this franchise, Cami. The rules don’t apply to me. You’d do well to remember that. You’d also do well to do
what I want you to do since my word might be the only thing that saves your job.”
“Ryder, get the fuck out of my office. Now!”
His eyes narrow and his face darkens as his lips curl back into a snarl. He takes another step forward, his entire demeanor
menacing.
“You don’t have to be such a bitch, Cami. I just want to take you out to dinner. You should be fucking grateful somebody like
me even notices somebody like you.”
I take a step to move around him, but Ryder grabs me by the arm and pushes me up against the wall with such force, that it
knocks the breath from my lungs. The back of my head raps against the wall, and I see stars bursting behind my eyes. But then
he lets out a loud squawk, and the weight of his body is suddenly gone.
I open my eyes to see Carter throwing Ryder across the office. My heart leaps into my throat, and something heavy sits on my
belly as I watch the rookie hit the cabinets on the wall across from me. My legs give out, spilling me to the floor. Ryder
stumbles and loses his footing, going down hard on the tiled floor as Carter puts himself between the rookie and me. Ryder gets
back to his feet, his face red and filled with fury.
“What the fuck, man?” Ryder shouts. “This ain’t your business, old man!”
“I’m making it my business,” Carter growls back. “What did I tell you about staying away from her? About showing her some
fucking respect.”
Ryder lets out a snarl and rushes at Carter, and everything seems to suddenly be moving in slow motion. My heart is beating its
way out of my chest as I watch it all unfold in front of me, terrified that Carter is going to get hurt. A startled scream bursts
from my mouth as Ryder takes a hard swing.
Carter sidesteps the punch and, in one fluid motion, turns and drives his fist into Ryder’s face. There’s a sharp crack, and I
watch as the rookie staggers backward and crashes into the cabinets on the other side of the office again where his legs give
out beneath him.
Ryder grunts and then falls onto his ass. With blood spilling from his nose, he looks up at Carter with a shocked expression on
his face. He stares at Carter as if in disbelief a man fifteen years his senior has gotten the best of him.
“What the fuck is going on in here?”
We all turn to see Hank Bradford, the team’s strength coach, standing in the doorway, his six-four bodybuilder’s frame looming
large over all of us. His jaw is clenched, and his hard, dark eyes take in each of us in turn.
“Well? What the fuck is going on here?” he demands.
Ryder gets to his feet and wipes the blood from his nose. He looks at Carter, and for the first time, I see fear flash through his
eyes. Carter turns to Hank and shrugs.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just a minor disagreement.”
Hank turns to Ryder. “Well?”
Ryder pauses for a moment and nods. “Yeah. It’s nothing. Like he said.”
Hank’s eyes dart from Ryder to Carter then back again. “Fine. Then get out of here. And let’s not have any more of these
disagreements. Sort your shit out and get over it. Now, go.”
Carter cuts a last glance at me before he and Ryder scurry out of the room, leaving me alone with the walking mountain of a
man. Hank reaches down and, with his enormous hands, lifts me to my feet more gently than I ever would have believed a man
his size could.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Thank you, Hank.”
“No sweat. Just… I’d stay away from those two if you can. Too much testosterone, not enough common sense.”
I nod. “Probably good advice. Thank you.”
He offers me a smile and walks out of the room. My legs shake so hard, they nearly dump me onto the floor again, but I manage
to keep my feet. I walk over to a chair and drop heavily into it, burying my face in my hands as I breathe deeply, taking a few
minutes to gather myself.
Eventually, my pulse begins to slow, and my stomach stops churning so wildly. My insides are awash in emotion, raw fear
among them. I don’t know how far Ryder would have gone had Carter not stepped in. Thank God he did. Thank God he saved
me from that monster… again.
Thinking of Carter sends a flutter through my heart and makes me flush warmly again. Seeing him handle Ryder so easily and
put that arrogant little shit in his place the way he did makes me want to laugh. I’m as surprised as Ryder that Carter put him
down like that.
It just proves to me yet again that there is more to Carter Cole than meets the eye. Much, much more.
 10
CARTER

T he tension between Ryder and me has carried over from the training room out onto the field.
He’s spent the entire session silently glowering at me. He’s pouting and pissy. It’s more than obvious he didn’t expect that I’d
be able to handle him so easily. He’s a big, strong guy, but he thinks his brawn gives him an advantage. More than a decade of
martial arts training taught me to use that against him. It’s tough to keep from smiling at him just to remind him that I got the
better of him and we both know it.
Originally, I started taking martial arts classes to work on my balance and coordination. Fighting was the last thing on my mind
when I started those classes. My thought was that if I could improve my balance and be lighter and more coordinated on my
feet, it would help me escape sacks and lessen my chances of injury. Learning how to fall and keeping your head from
slamming into the turf can reduce the chance of concussions, which can have short and long-term consequences. But those
lessons sure came in handy for something else today.
Ryder takes a snap, drops back five steps, and fires a pass across the middle. It's offline and sails well wide of the receiver,
and I stifle the laugh that bubbles up in my throat. In a game that likely would have been picked off, it's not hard to see that he's
rattled. That his emotions over what happened in the training room are spilling over onto the field. That's yet another reason
he's not ready to be a starter in this league. Using those emotions to fuel your play is a good thing. But Ryder's emotions are
eating away at him and negatively affecting his play.
I stand back and watch Ryder overthrowing, underthrowing, and throwing wide of his targets and keep myself in check. His
showing during this session has been poor. He’s barking at his receivers, not taking any of the blame for missed connections,
and there’s no way Coach B isn’t seeing it. Maybe, just maybe, this will give me an edge in the competition to be the starter.
But that means I’m going to have to perform when I get my shot this session. I need to be able to show the stark contrast
between me and Ryder. Which means, I need to get my head on straight.
I do my best to push my thoughts of the confrontation with Ryder out of my head. As I do, images of being with Cami in the car
the day before fill the void in my mind. A small smile flickers across my lips when I remember the feeling of being deep inside
of her.
My skin tingles, my every nerve ending feeling like they’re on fire as I recall the feeling of her hand on my cock, of sinking
deep into her, and then erupting inside her tight walls. I shudder as I recall the way she milked every drop of my come out of
me with her inner muscles and the look on her face as she did it. For being a virgin, Cami knows how to use her body.
I’ve been doing my best to figure out the emotions she stirred up in me but still can’t get a handle on them. I’m not a
relationship guy. Never have been. I’ve been so focused on my goals and my career that I honestly have never had time for
them. But the more I get to know Cami, the deeper our connection grows, the more I feel for her. I find myself thinking about her
when we’re not together. Find myself wanting to be with her again. She makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in a really long
time. And it’s only because she makes me feel this way that I even noticed the absence of that fire in the first place.
What’s got me so twisted up is that I want to be with her for more than just sex. This isn’t just a physical thing. I enjoy being in
her presence. I enjoy talking to her. She’s easy to talk to, and she makes me laugh. I can’t say that I’ve ever really felt so
comfortable or at ease with somebody before. Back in the day, when I was Ryder’s age, I was all about the party and having a
good time, but as I’ve gotten older, the more I enjoy the quiet. I don’t go out often and have found I’m not as into hanging out
with fake people who glom onto celebrities and athletes as I used to be. But I enjoy hanging out with Cami. A lot.
“Cole, pull your head out of your ass! You’re up!”
Coach B’s bellowing voice pulls me out of my head and snaps me back to the moment. Everybody stares at me, most of them
laughing. All except for Ryder who stands off to the side with a sour look on his face.
“Sorry,” I say with a grin.
I take my place under center, and as I do, Cami’s face floats through my mind. Rather than a distraction, I feel a sense of peace
and calm descend over me. I hear her words echoing through my head. Hear the sincerity in her voice as she expresses her
unfettered belief in me. Between that and the memory of yesterday flashing through my head, a torrent of adrenaline shoots
through my veins.
“And go!”
I take the snap from the center and drop back three steps, quickly firing over the middle and hitting my receiver in stride. I steal
a glance at Ryder, whose glower only deepens, and wink at him. And so it goes for the next forty-five minutes of the session.
My footwork is on point, my release quick, and my passes crisp and accurate. It’s the best session I’ve had since I first stepped
onto the field here. Coach B notices. And I know Ryder does too.
Coach B blows his whistle, ending the session, and gathers us around. He gives us a talk, offering some notes on things we
need to improve on. I find it incredibly satisfying when he gives Ryder a lengthy list but offers me nothing other than praise.
The rookie's face is sour, and I see him casting dark glares at a couple of the other young receivers I'd been throwing to. They
give him a shrug and an apologetic look, telling me Ryder had expected them to make him look better by dropping the balls I
was throwing. I've been around the league long enough to know how this shit works. But good on the rookies for standing up to
Ryder.
“All right, that’s it. Hit the shower and we’ll break for lunch. After that, break into your position groups and get to the film
study,” Coach B calls. “Cole, Simmons, hang back.”
As the team breaks for the facility to shower up, Ryder and I stay where we are. It’s too early for Coach B. to be naming a
starter for the season opener, which tells me this little meeting is probably going to be less than pleasant.
“Okay, listen up,” Coach B starts. “I heard what happened in the training room today. I don’t know the details—don’t need the
details. All I need to say is that you two are supposed to be the goddamn leaders of this team, but you’re acting like fucking
children. That shit stops right here and right now. Do you understand me?”
Ryder and I exchange a look then turn back to Coach B and nod but say nothing.
“I don’t know what sort of beef you guys got, but it’s well past time you get over that shit. Carter, you’re a veteran. You’re the
adult in the room, so act like it. Ryder, you’re acting like a child. You’re a pro football player now, so grow up,” he says. “Do
you both understand me?”
“Yes, Coach,” I say.
“Yes, sir,” Ryder says.
“Good. Because if I hear of anything even remotely resembling what happened today again, you’re going to force me to make
some really tough decisions—decisions I don’t want to make, gentlemen,” he says. “I think you both have a lot to offer this
organization. I think we can all win a lot of games if we work together. So, figure your shit out. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Ryder says again.
“Crystal, coach,” I say.
“Good. Oh, and one last thing,” he says. “You both need to stay the fuck away from my daughter. Find somebody else in the
training department to work with. I don’t want to see either one of you near Cami again.”
And with that, Coach B turns and stalks away, leaving Ryder and me staring after him. The rookie casts me a dark, dirty look.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure I heard Coach B right. Cami is his daughter? I honestly had no idea because she never told me.
“Listen, you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours,” Ryder says.
“Fine with me. But you don’t go near Cami again. You don’t even think about her.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
Ryder turns and heads for the facility, leaving me standing there feeling like I just got kicked in the balls with the revelation of
Cami’s parentage.
 11
CAMI

W hen my father told me he’d spoken with Ryder and Carter about what happened in the training room, it felt like I’d
swallowed a bowling ball.
I was shocked that he had dared to call out his prized rookie and pricey free agent addition. But I’m not going to lie. There’s a
part of me that’s grateful he decided to be my dad and to protect me first, and be a coach second for a change.
Of course, the downside of that is that Carter seems to have been avoiding me the last couple of days. He hasn’t returned my
calls or texts, and when I see him in the facility, he turns and heads the other way. He had other trainers handle his taping
before practice and his treatments afterward, and on those rare occasions when we were in the same place at the same time, he
refused to look me in the eye.
That's just not working for me, so I decide it’s time to take matters into my own hands. I raise my hand and knock on the door—
probably a little harder than I'd intended to but whatever. Taking a step back, I cross my arms over my chest and wait. A
moment later, it opens, and Carter looks at me with an expression of surprise on his face.
“Cami,” he says. “Jesus, I thought a SWAT team was about to kick my door in.”
“Sorry. No, I’m not. Not really. What the fuck, Carter?”
“Seems like I’m the one who should be asking that question. I mean, there seems to be something you forgot to tell me.
Something rather important, as it turns out.”
I push my way past him and walk into his place, stomping my way down the short hallway and into the living room. Putting my
hands on my hips, I turn and look at him.
“Sure. Come on in,” he says and closes the door.
He leans against the rounded archway that leads into the living room and watches me in silence. Carter’s place is nice and well
put together, but it’s also very generic. The furniture and artwork on the walls are all plain and look like something that came
straight off the IKEA showroom floor. He’s got no memorabilia, no knick-knacks, no photographs. There are literally no
personal touches anywhere.
“Jesus, Carter, is this an Airbnb?”
“Yeah, actually it is. I’ve been a little busy and haven’t had a chance to get out and look for a place of my own just yet.”
“Oh. That makes sense. Don’t you have people for that?”
“I’m not going to have somebody else find a place for me to live.” He manages to sound offended. “I’m the one who has to live
here.”
“Yeah, okay. I get that.”
We both fall silent and look at each other. I came storming in here with such a head of steam up, but now that I’m staring into
those deep, rich blue eyes, all the anger that fueled me seems to have evaporated. I give my head a shake and try to gather my
wits about me again.
“What are you doing here, Cami?” he asks softly.
“I came to find out why you’re ignoring me.”
“Coach Blankenship—I mean, your father—told me to stay away from you. He said he’d cut me if I didn’t.”
My mouth turns dry, and his words feel like a punch to the gut that leaves me breathless. I look up at Carter, suddenly not sure
what to say.
“I-I didn’t mean to keep that from you, Carter. You have to believe me.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me your father is my coach?”
“It just never really came up, I guess.”
“You had plenty of opportunities. I mean, you told me you were born into the game and have been around it all your life. And
your father being the coach of the team I’m playing on didn’t come up? That seems like something that should have come up.”
“That’s fair. I just… he’s made such a point of making sure I don’t disclose our relationship to anybody. It’s just not something I
talk about. It’s not on purpose. It’s just second nature now.”
“Why doesn’t he want people to know you’re his daughter? Coaches hire family members all the time. It’s not like it’s
unprecedented.”
“He’s built a reputation on making people earn what they get,” I tell him. “He’s afraid people will see me being with the team
as nepotism. That I didn’t earn it. He’s afraid it will undermine his brand.”
“That’s ridiculous. Seriously. That’s fucking stupid. I mean, if you were competing for a roster spot, I might understand. There
are only so many of those. But you’re with the training staff. There isn’t a set number of trainers we can have.”
A bitter laugh bursts from my mouth. “You know that and I know that. Try telling my dad that, though. He’s afraid the
appearance of impropriety will look bad.”
“Did he hire you?”
“No. Jordan Murray, the head trainer, hired me,” I reply. “My dad didn’t know I even applied until I surprised him on my first
day. But he’s afraid people are going to think he gave me special treatment anyway and asked me to keep our relationship
quiet.”
“That’s… stupid.”
A wry smile twists my lips. “It is. But I also understand it. My dad has devoted his life to whichever team he’s coaching. He
puts all of himself into it, and everything he does is for the good of the team. I understand and believe in what he does. The last
thing I want is to be a problem. So, for the good of the team, I go along. Whenever anybody asks, I use my mother’s maiden
name.”
Carter slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and he looks down at the ground, his expression softening. I can still feel
that wall between us, though. He’s still reluctant to defy my father and be with me even though I can tell by the look on his face
that being apart has been as hard on him as it’s been on me.
“I’m a grown woman, Carter. He doesn’t get to say who I can and can’t be with.”
A sad smile touches his lips. “He does so long as he’s the one making the roster. And this might be my last shot at a winner,
Cami. I don’t⁠—”
“My father doesn’t have to know. He won’t know.”
“I’m not going to ask you to keep another secret.”
“It’s my choice. You’re not asking me to do anything.”
I step over to him and lay my hands flat on his chest. His body is tense. Taut. But his eyes burn with the same desire I saw in his
car at Mac's. The air between us crackles with that same sense of anticipation and electricity. Carter's breath catches in his
throat. But then he shakes his head, takes hold of my wrists, and starts to step away.
I shake his hands off and grab the front of his t-shirt then pull him down, kissing him almost violently. He grabs the side of my
face and turns me around, pinning me up against the wall as he kisses me harder. His tongue swirls forcefully around mine,
hands sliding down to my breasts. He cups and kneads them through the fabric of the sweatshirt, his kiss growing hotter and
even more frantic.
I raise my arms as he slides my hoodie up my body. Carter quickly pulls it off and throws it toward the couch. It misses and
puddles on the floor. My bra quickly follows, and then Carter’s mouth and hands are on my breasts, squeezing and sucking
them. Electricity crackles through my veins as he teases and grazes my nipples with his teeth. I run my hands through his hair,
pulling on it and reveling in the feelings as my body tingles.
We quickly shed our clothes, tossing them aside, and it’s not long before Carter’s living room floor is littered with them. We’re
both naked as the day we were born, and I get my first look at him in all his glory.
Carter’s body is a work of art. All hard angles and planes, thick, corded muscle, his skin warm and golden. He is what people
talk about when they describe somebody as being chiseled out of marble in the likeness of a Greek God.
My eyes travel down his body, stopping at his thick girth, which is engorged and pointing straight up, and I gasp softly. Carter’s
cock is thick and long, and honestly, I can’t believe I took something that large into my body. But the memory of riding him in
his truck on that rainy day makes me shudder deliciously and anticipate having him inside of me again. My entire body trembles
and I swallow hard, wanting to feel him on top of me, his cock buried to the hilt. Seeing him naked and raw is bringing all
those dirty little things I’m learning that I enjoy to the surface all over again.
My skin feels like it’s on fire, lust pooling low in my belly, and I’m so wet, the insides of my thighs are slick with my juices.
Carter takes a moment to look at me, a look of ecstasy and admiration on his face. He drinks me in with a look of such rapture
on his face that it makes me shudder. I never imagined a man would look at me the way he does. And if I’m being honest, it’s
getting me even wetter—wetter than I’ve ever been in my life.
“You are absolutely exquisite,” he says, his voice thick with desire.
“I need you inside of me, Carter. Now.”
A squeal bursts from my mouth as he picks me up and carries me over to the dining room table. The smooth wood is cold
against the bare skin of my ass. I part my thighs, allowing Carter between my legs as he steps forward. He slides his hand
behind my head and grips my hair. A small moan bursts from my mouth as he yanks my head back. He kisses my neck, gently
nipping at my skin and sending fiery tingles through my veins. The head of his cock brushes at my opening as he kisses my
mouth, making me shudder.
“Fuck me, Daddy,” I whisper in his ear.
His body stiffens but a low, deep growl issues from his throat that rumbles along my skin. He steps forward, and I reach up and
grab hold of his broad shoulders. He holds my gaze as he reaches down and nestles the head of his cock between the slick
folds of my pussy. Then, with one hard thrust, buries himself deep within me. The feeling of being stretched open like that hurts.
But that pinch of pain only makes the rush of pleasure all the more vivid. And as he starts moving inside of me, I throw my head
back and cry out.
Carter fills me up completely and the feeling of his thickness sliding against my slick inner walls sends sparks of heat flowing
through my veins. A gasping, trembling moan drifts from my mouth as Carter pounds himself into me, the sound of our bodies
slapping together filling my ears.
“Y-yes, Daddy. Yes. Fuck me,” I moan.
He groans and his eyes flutter as he grips my thighs and starts pounding himself into me even harder. He thrusts into me almost
violently, and it sends waves of pleasure washing through me. Carter suddenly steps back and pulls me off the table. With a
hard grunt, he turns me around and bends me over, pushing me down onto the tabletop. I look at him over my shoulder, the tip of
my tongue poking out between my lips and my pussy quivering, eagerly waiting for him to pierce me again.
“I need you inside me, Daddy,” I moan.
With one hand gripping my shoulder, Carter steps forward and sinks his cock into my dripping wet pussy from behind. His
fingers press hard into my flesh as he rams his hips forward. I throw my head back and close my eyes, savoring the sensation of
him filling me up so completely. I hear a sharp crack and let out a surprised yelp when he slaps my ass.
It stings, and I don’t even have to look to know there is a large, red handprint on my asscheek. The pain quickly fades and
makes the pleasure gripping me even more vibrant. I look over my shoulder at him, a salacious smile crossing my lips.
“Again, Daddy.”
Carter obliges and smacks my ass again. And again. And again. My ass feels like it’s on fire, but I tremble and writhe wildly.
My stomach tightens, and when he spanks me again, I throw my head back and cry out as I come. My heart is beating so hard,
I’m afraid it’s going to burst. My breath is ragged and my vision wavers, the orgasm even more powerful and intense than the
one I had in his car.
Carter swells, and I feel him throbbing. I know he’s getting close. His breath is as frantic as his movements are like he’s trying
to hang on. Trying to hold out. And when I look at him over my shoulder, his jaw is clenched, but he’s got a look of ecstasy on
his face.
“Come for me, Daddy.”
His rhythm breaks, and he gives me a shuddering smirk. He grabs his cock, and as I watch him stroking it, I shudder and feel
my juices running down the insides of my thighs. A moment later, he grunts and calls out my name as he erupts. I watch his
sticky white seed burst from the tip, spraying all over my ass and back. Feeling it hitting my skin is so dirty but so sexy at the
same time. I moan loudly as it makes me come along with him.
I stand up and turn around while Carter slips his hands around my waist and gives me a gentle kiss, a small smile curling his
lips.
“We should go take a shower,” I say.
He nods but furrows his eyebrows. “You know this is going to be complicated, don’t you?”
I beam at him. “The best things in life usually are.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
rebel resistance by proclaiming that it was the intention of the Duke
of Cumberland to transport the Highlanders to America. On April 3rd,
the rebels captured Blair Castle, and on the 16th the duke’s victory
at Culloden proved decisive of the fate of the Stuarts.
Exactly a week after the Duke of Cumberland gained the victory, a
report to that effect reached London, but there was no news from the
duke himself till the 25th. His business-like account of the battle
appeared in the ‘London Gazette’ next day. In the interim the London
Jacobites in their places of resort asserted loudly that the duke was
in full retreat; and it was whispered that if he was hopelessly beaten,
the ‘Papists would rise all over the kingdom.’ But now ‘hope’ herself
was beaten out of the souls of Papists and Jacobites. The military in
London were in a vein of swaggering delight. They talked of the
young duke’s briefly heroic address to a cavalry regiment on the
point of charging. He patted the nearest man to him on the back, and
cried aloud, ‘One brush, my lads, for the honour of old Cobham!’
Then was curiosity stirred in London barracks as to
NEWS OF
which regiments were to get the prize for bravery, CULLODEN.
subscribed by the Corporation of London—namely
5,000l. The duke so wisely distributed it as to rebuke nobody.
Veterans at Chelsea were looking at the vacant spaces where they
should hang the captured flags, and were disappointed when they
heard at the Horse Guards that the duke, considering that it was said
how little honour was connected with such trophies, had sent the
flags to Edinburgh to be burnt by the common hangman. The
Chelsea veterans, however, envied the capturers of the (four) flags;
for to each man the duke gave sixteen guineas. Medals and crosses
were not yet thought of. His generosity was lauded as
enthusiastically as his valour.
While the Jacobites were overwhelming him with charges of
cruelty and meanness, the friends of ‘the present happy
establishment’ were circulating stories in and about London of his
humanity and liberality. Soldiers of the young Chevalier’s army had
wreaked their vengeance upon Mr. Rose, the minister at Nairn—on
himself and his house. He was a Whig and anti-Romanist, who had
favoured the escape of some prisoners taken by the Jacobite army.
The Highlanders burnt his house, and, tying the minister up, they
gave him 500 lashes. The duke, on hearing of this outrage, fell into
uncontrollable fury, and swore he would avenge it. If there was some
savagery at and after Culloden, no wonder! Such, at least, was the
London feeling among the duke’s friends. But the feeling generally
was one of ecstacy at the decisive victory. Lord Bury, who had
arrived on the 25th with the news direct from the duke to the king,
could hardly walk along the then terraced St. James’s Street for the
congratulations of the crowd. Nobody thought such a halcyon
messenger was too highly rewarded with a purse of a thousand
guineas, and with being nominated own aide-de-camp to King
George.
That 25th of April was indeed a gala day for the
A POPULAR
London mob. They had ample time for breakfast HOLIDAY.
before they gathered at the ‘end of New Bond Street,
in Tyburn Road’ (as Oxford Street was then called), to see the young
footman, Henderson, hanged for the murder of his mistress, Lady
Dalrymple. The culprit did not die ‘game,’ and the brutes were
disappointed, but they found consolation in the fall of a scaffolding
with all its occupants. Then they had time to pour into the Park and
see four or five sergeants shot for trying to desert from King
George’s service to King James’s. Moreover there was a man to be
whipt somewhere in the City, and a pretty group of sight-seers
assembled at Charing Cross in expectation of ‘a fellow in the pillory.’
What with these delights, and the pursuing Lord Bury with
vociferations of sanguinary congratulation, the day was a thorough
popular holiday.
The anxiety that had been felt in London before Culloden may be
measured by the wild joy which prevailed when the news of the
victory arrived. Walpole, in Arlington Street, on the evening of the
25th April, writes: ‘The town is all blazing around me as I write with
fireworks and illuminations. I have some inclination to wrap up half a
dozen sky-rockets to make you drink the duke’s health. Mr.
Dodington, on the first report, came out with a very pretty
illumination, so pretty that I believe he had it by him, ready for any
occasion.’
 On the same evening the Rev. Mr. Harris wrote from London to
the mother of the future first Earl of Malmesbury, just born: ‘You
cannot imagine the prodigious rejoicings that have been made this
evening in every part of the town; and indeed it is a proper time for
people to express their joy when the enemies of their country are
thus cut off.’
On that evening Alexander Carlyle was with CARLYLE AND
Smollett in the Golden Ball coffee-house, Cockspur SMOLLETT.
Street. ‘London,’ he says, ‘was in a perfect uproar of
joy. About nine o’clock I asked Smollett if he was ready to go, as he
lived at May Fair’ (Carlyle was bound for New Bond Street on a
supper engagement). ‘He said he was, and would conduct me. The
mob were so riotous and the squibs so numerous and incessant that
we were glad to go into a narrow entry to put our wigs into our
pockets, and to take our swords from our belts and walk with them in
our hands, as everybody then wore swords; and after cautioning me
against speaking a word lest the mob should discover my country
and become insolent, “John Bull,” says he, “is as haughty and valiant
to-night, as he was abject and cowardly on the Black Wednesday
(Friday?) when the Highlanders were at Derby.” After we got to the
head of the Haymarket through incessant fire, the doctor led me by
narrow lanes where we met nobody but a few boys at a pitiful
bonfire, who very civilly asked us for sixpence, which I gave them. I
saw not Smollett again for some time after, when he showed Smith
and me the manuscript of his “Tears of Scotland,” which was
published not long after, and had such a run of approbation.’
Smollett was one of those Tories who, like many of
‘TEARS OF
the Nonjurors, were not necessarily or consequently SCOTLAND.’
Jacobites. They were more willing to make the best of
a foreign king than to risk their liberties under an incapable bigot like
James Stuart, who, save for the accident of birth, was less of an
Englishman and knew less of England (in which, throughout his life,
he had only spent a few months) than either of the Georges. But
Smollett felt keenly the sufferings of his country, and out of the
feeling sprung his verses so full of a tenderly expressed grief,—‘The
Tears of Scotland!’ How that mournful ode was written in London in
this year of mournful memories for the Jacobites, no one can tell
better than Walter Scott. ‘Some gentlemen having met at a tavern,
were amusing themselves before supper with a game of cards, while
Smollett, not choosing to play, sat down to write. One of the
company (Graham of Gartmoor), observing his earnestness and
supposing he was writing verses, asked him if it was not so. He
accordingly read them the first sketch of the “Tears of Scotland,”
consisting only of six stanzas, and on their remarking that the
termination of the poem being too strongly expressed might give
offence to persons whose political opinions were different, he sat
down without reply and, with an air of great indignation, subjoined
the concluding stanza:—
While the warm blood bedews my veins INDIGNATION
And unimpair’d remembrance reigns, VERSES.
Resentment of my country’s fate
Within my filial breast shall beat.
Yes! spite of thine insulting foe,
My sympathising verse shall flow;
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish’d peace, thy laurels torn!’
The following were the lines which were supposed to be likely to
offend the friends of the hero of Culloden; but the sentiment was
shared by many who were not friends of the Stuart cause:—
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor’s rage was not appeased;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murd’ring steel.
The pious mother, doom’d to death,
Forsaken, wanders o’er the heath, &c., &c.
The picture was somewhat over-drawn, but there were thousands
who believed it to be true to the very letter.
 CHAPTER VII.

(1746.)
he players and the playwrights were zealous Whigs
throughout the rebellion. The Drury Lane company to a
man became volunteers, under their manager, Mr.
Lacy, who had asked the royal permission to raise a
couple of hundred men, in defence of his Majesty’s
person and Government. To attract loyal audiences at a time when
the public could not be readily tempted to the theatre, ‘The Nonjuror’
was revived, at both houses. Two players, Macklin and Elderton, set
to work to produce plays for their respective theatres, on the subject
of Perkin Warbeck. While Macklin was delivering what he wrote,
piecemeal, to the actors, for study, and Elderton was perspiring over
his laborious gestation of blank-verse, the proprietors of the
playhouse in Goodman’s Fields forestalled both by bringing out
Ford’s old play, which is named after the Pretender to the throne of
Henry VII. Macklin called his piece ‘Henry VII., or the Popish
Impostor.’ This absurd allusion to Perkin was a shaft aimed at the
actual Pretender. The Whigs approved of both title and play, and
they roared at every line which they could apply against Tories and
Jacobites. At both houses, occasional prologues
THE PLAYERS.
stirred the loyal impulses or provoked the indignation
of the audience. At Covent Garden, ‘Tamerlane,’ which was always
solemnly brought out when the popular wrath was to be excited
against France, was preceded by a patriotic prologue which Mrs.
Pritchard delivered in her best manner, and Dodsley sold the next
day, as fast as he could deliver copies over the counter of his shop in
Pall Mall. Rich and his Covent Garden players did not turn soldiers,
but he gave the house, gratis, for three days for the benefit of a
scheme that was to be to the advantage of the veterans of the army;
and this brought 600l. to the funds. The actors sacrificed their
salaries, and charming Mrs. Cibber sang as Polly, in the ‘Beggars’
Opera’ more exquisitely than ever, to prove (as she said) that,
‘though she was a Catholic, she was sincerely attached to the family
who was in possession of the Throne, and she acknowledged the
favour and honour she had received from them.’ On the night when
the first report of the victory at Culloden was circulated, Drury Lane
got up a play that had not been acted for thirty years, ‘The Honours
of the Army,’ and Mrs. Woffington, as ‘The Female Officer,’ ‘new
dressed,’ spoke a dashing prologue. A night or two later, Theophilus
Cibber wrote and delivered a prologue on the Duke of Cumberland’s
victories. At Covent Garden were revived two pieces, by Dennis:
‘Liberty Asserted’ and ‘Plot and no Plot.’ Genest says of the first
piece that it was revived ‘for the sake of the invectives against the
French; and “Plot and no Plot,” for the sake of the cuts on the
Jacobites,—at this time almost every play was revived, which might
be expected to attract, from its political tendency.’
The minor, or unlicensed, theatres tempted loyal people with
coarser fare,—to the same end, keeping up a hostile feeling against
the French and the Jacobites. Observe with what quaint delicacy the
matter is put in the following advertisements.
‘As the Proprietors of Sadler’s Wells have diligently
SADLER’S
embraced every opportunity of giving their audiences WELLS AND
satisfaction, they would have thought themselves THE NEW
guilty of the highest Error to have been silent upon WELLS.
the present happy occasion. Every Class of Britons must be pleased
at the least Hint of Gratitude to the excellent Prince who has
exposed himself to so many Difficulties for the sake of his country,
and therefore they have endeavour’d to show a Natural Scene of
what perhaps may happen to many a honest Countryman in
consequence of the late happy Victory, in a new Interlude of Music,
called Strephon’s Return, or the British Hero, which will be perform’d
this Night, with many advantages of Dress and Decoration.’
But ‘how the wit brightens and the style refines’ in the following
announcement from Mr. Yeates!
‘The Applause that was so universally express’d
CULLODEN
last Night, by the numbers of Gentlemen et cætera ON THE
who honoured the New Wells near the London Spaw, STAGE.
Clerkenwell, with their Company, is thankfully acknowledg’d; but Mr.
Yeates humbly hopes that the Ideas of Liberty and Courage (tho’ he
confesses them upon the present Occasion extremely influencing)
will not for the future so far transport his Audiences as to prove of
such Detriment to his Benches; several hearty Britons, when
Courage appeared (under which Character, the illustrious Duke,
whom we have so much reason to admire, is happily represented)
having exerted their Canes in such a Torrent of Satisfaction as to
have render’d his Damage far from inconsiderable.’
The other ‘New Wells’ declined to be outdone. There too, love and
liquor were shown to be the reward due to valiant Strephons
returning from Culloden to London. There, they were taught to ‘hate
a Frenchman like the Devil;’ and there, they and the public might see
all the phases of the half-hour’s battle, and of some striking incidents
before and after it, all painted on one canvas.
‘At the New Wells, the Bottom of Lemon Street, Goodman’s
Fields, this present Evening will be several new Exercises of Rope-
dancing, Tumbling, Singing, and Dancing, with several new Scenes
in grotesque Characters call’d Harlequin a Captive in France, or the
Frenchman trapt at last. The whole to conclude with an exact view of
our Gallant Army under the Command of their Glorious Hero passing
the River Spey, giving the Rebels Battle and gaining a Complete
Victory near Culloden House, with the Horse in pursuit of the
Pretender.’
To these unlicensed houses, admission was gained not by
entrance money, but by paying for a certain quantity of wine or
punch.
It would, however, appear as if some of the bards, MRS.
like Bubb Dodington with his transparency, had so WOFFINGTON.
contemplated the result of the war, as to be ready to
hail any issue, and any victor. One of these, the Jacobites being
defeated, wrote an epilogue, ‘designed to be spoken by Mrs.
Woffington, in the character of a Volunteer;’—but the poem was not
finished till interest in the matter had greatly evaporated, and the
poet was told he was ‘too late.’ Of course, he shamed the rogues by
printing his work,—which is one illustrating both the morals and the
manners of the time. It illustrates the former by infamously indecent
inuendo, and the latter by the following outburst, for some of the
ideas of which the writer had rifled Addison’s ‘Freeholder.’
Joking apart, we women have strong reason
To sap the progress of this popish treason;
For now, when female liberty’s at stake,
All women ought to bustle for its sake.
Should these malicious sons of Rome prevail,
Vows, convents, and that heathen thing, a veil,
Must come in fashion; and such institutions
Would suit but oddly with our constitutions.
What gay coquette would brook a nun’s profession?
And I’ve some private reasons ’gainst confession.
Besides, our good men of the Church, they say
(Who now, thank Heaven, may love as well as pray)
Must then be only wed to cloister’d houses;—
Stop! There we’re fobb’d of twenty thousand spouses!
And, faith! no bad ones, as I’m told; then judge ye,
Is’t fit we lose our benefit of clergy?
In Freedom’s cause, ye patriot fair, arise!
Exert the sacred influence of your eyes.
On valiant merit deign alone to smile,
And vindicate the glory of our isle.
To no base coward prostitute our charms;
Disband the lover who deserts his arms.
So shall ye fire each hero to his duty,
And British rights be saved by British beauty.
The Whig press was, of course, jubilant. The THE PRESS,
papers in the opposite interest put as good a face as ON
CULLODEN.
they could on the matter, and expressed a conviction
that they ‘ventured no treason in hoping that the weather might
change.’
 The ‘Craftsman’ was, or affected to be, beside itself for joy at the
thought that no foreign mercenaries had helped to reap the laurels at
Culloden. The victory was won by British troops only; and the duke
might say, like Coriolanus, ‘Alone, I did it!’ The ‘True Patriot’ insisted
on some share of the laurels being awarded to the king, since he
stood singly in refusing to despair of the monarchy, when all other
men were, or seemed, hopeless and helpless. To which the ‘Western
Journal’ added that not merely was the king far-seeing, and the duke
victorious at the head of English troops without foreign auxiliaries,
but that never before had an English army made its way so far into
the country, to crush a Scottish foe. The ‘Journal,’ much read in all
London coffee-houses resorted to by Western gentlemen, was
opposed to the killing of rebels in cold blood, and could not see what
profit was to be got by hanging them. This paper suggested that
some benefit might be obtained by making slaves of them; not by
transporting them to the Plantations, but by compelling them to serve
in the herring and salmon fisheries, for the advantage of the
compellers, that is, the Government!
In the ‘General Advertiser,’ a man who probably
SAVAGERY
had reached the age when a sense of humanity fails AND SATIRE.
before any of the other senses, asked what objection
was to be found with such terms as ‘Extermination,’ ‘Extirpation,’ and
similar significances applied to those savages, the Highlanders? This
ogre, in his easy chair, cared not to see that, in driving out a whole
race, more cruelty would be deliberately inflicted on innocent human
beings, than the savage Highlanders had inflicted in their fury. And
indeed, the latter did not spare their own people, if the milkmaids’
song be true, in which the illustrative line occurs, ‘We dare na gae a
milkin’ for fear o’ Charlie’s men.’ However, the least punishment
which the correspondent of the ‘Advertiser’ would accept was a
general transportation of the race to Africa and America, and a
settlement on their lands of English tenants at easy rents! This sort
of Highlander-phobia and the threatened application of severe laws
which included the suppression of what has been called ‘the Garb of
old Gael,’ or Highland dress, gave rise to some good-natured satire.
‘We hear,’ said one of the newspapers, ‘that the dapper wooden
Highlanders, who guard so heroically the doors of snuff shops,
intend to petition the Legislature in order that they may be excused
from complying with the Act of Parliament with regard to their change
of dress, alleging that they had ever been faithful subjects to his
Majesty, having constantly supplied his Guards with a pinch out of
their Mulls, when they marched by them; and so far from engaging in
any Rebellion, that they have never entertained a rebellious thought,
whence they humbly hope that they shall not be put to the expense
of buying new Cloaths.’
So spoke the fun-loving spirits; but there were
THE
baser spirits on the conquering side, and these CARICATURIS
speedily exhibited an indecent exultation. The TS.
ignominious caricaturists attracted crowds to the print
shops to gaze at the facility with which vulgar minds can degrade
solemn and lofty themes. On the one hand, the defeat of the
Highlanders and the consternation of Sullivan, the standard-bearer in
Charles Edward’s army, attracted laughter. On the other hand, the
too early, and altogether vain, boast conveyed on the young
Chevalier’s banner, ‘Tandem triumphans,’ was more legitimately
satirised in an engraving in which the standard-bearer is an ass, and
on his standard are three crowns surmounted by a coffin, with the
motto ‘Tandem triumphans,’ done into English by the Duke of
Cumberland, as equivalent to ‘Every dog has his day;’—which, after
all, was no great compliment to the duke. The triple crown and coffin
represented the issue of crown or grave; in one print the Devil is
seen flying with it over Temple Bar, as if it merited to be planted
there, as were afterwards the spiked heads of Towneley and of
Fletcher.
Jacobite sympathies were attracted and puzzled PSEUDO-
by a portrait of ‘The young Chevalier,’ which was to PORTRAIT OF
be seen, for sale, in every printshop. Alexander CHARLES
Carlyle gives an amusing account of it in his EDWARD.
‘Autobiography.’ ‘As I had seen,’ he says, ‘the Chevalier Prince
Charles frequently in Scotland, I was appealed to, if a print that was
selling in all the shops was not like him? My answer was, that it had
not the least resemblance. Having been taken one night, however, to
a meeting of the Royal Society, by Microscope Baker, there was
introduced a Hanoverian Baron, whose likeness was so strong to the
print which passed for the young Pretender, that I had no doubt that,
he being a stranger, the printsellers had got him sketched out, that
they might make something of it before the vera effigies could be
had. The latter, when it could at last be procured, was advertised in
cautious terms, as ‘A curious Head, painted from the Life, by the
celebrated M. Torcque, and engraved in France, by J. G. Will, with
proper decorations in a new taste.’ Beneath the portrait, the following
verses were inscribed:—
‘Few know my face, though all men do my fame,
Look strictly and you’ll quickly guess my name.
Through deserts, snows, and rain I made my way,
My life was daily risk’d to gain the day.
Glorious in thought, but now my hopes are gone,
Each friend grows shy, and I’m at last undone.’
Fear of him, and of his followers, was far from having died out. A
letter in the ‘Malmesbury Correspondence,’ dated May, might almost
have been written by the advocate of Extermination, in the
‘Advertiser;’—the rev. writer says: ‘A Bill is now preparing and will
soon be brought into the House of Lords, for putting the Highlands of
Scotland under quite a new regulation, and you may be assured,
until some bill is passed effectually to subdue that herd of savages,
we shall never be free from alarms of invasion in the North of
England.’
Lord Stair, then in London, was more hopeful, and expressed a
belief that the king would now have weight in the affairs of Europe.
‘Fifty battalions and fifty squadrons well employed, can cast the
balance which way his Majesty pleases.’ Derby captains now looked
to shake themselves out of mere tavern-life; while spirited young
fellows thought of commissions, and the figure they would cut in new
uniforms.
Meanwhile, the Government was not meanly
THE DUKE OF
hostile to their dead enemies. The Duke of Ormond, ORMOND.
the boldest and frankest of conspirators against the
Hanoverian succession; the man who more than once would have
invaded his country at the head of foreign troops; he who had
fostered rebellion, and maintained foiled rebels, during his thirty
years’ exile, had, at last, died in his eighty-third year. King and
ministers made no opposition to the interment of this splendid arch-
traitor in Westminster Abbey. His anonymous biographer (1747),
after stating that the duke died, on November 14th, 1745, at
Avignon, says: ‘On the 18th, his body was embalmed by four
surgeons and three physicians, and in the following month, May, as
a bale of goods, brought through France to England, and lodg’d in
the Jerusalem Chamber, and soon after, decently enterr’d.’
There was something more than mere ‘decency.’ In BURIAL OF
the ‘General Advertiser,’ May 23rd, it is announced, ORMOND.
but without a word of comment on the great Jacobite:
—‘Last night, about Eleven o’Clock, the Corps of the late Duke of
Ormond was, after lying in State, in the Jerusalem Chamber,
Westminster Abbey, interr’d in great Funeral Pomp and Solemnity, in
the Ormond Vault in King Henry the Seventh’s Chapel, the whole
Choir attending, and the Ceremony was perform’d, by the Right Rev.
the Lord Bishop of Rochester and Dean of Westminster.’
But the popular attention was directed to the other ‘Duke.’
Whatever Tories may have said at the time, or people generally,
since that period as to the character of the Duke of Cumberland, he
was the popular hero from the moment he arrived in London, after
the victory at Culloden. The papers were full of his praises. They
lauded not only his valour but his piety. After the battle, so they said,
he had gone unattended over the battle-field, and he was not only
seen in profound meditation, but was heard to exclaim,—his hands
on his breast, and his eyes raised to heaven—‘Lord! what am I that I
should be spared, when so many brave men lie dead upon the
spot?’ Even Scotsmen have owned that the duke attributed his
victory to God, alone, and that he was unmoved by the adulation of
that large body of Englishmen who were grateful at having been
relieved by him from a great danger. They compared him with the
Black Prince, who won the day at Poictiers, when he was about the
same age as the duke, when he triumphed at Culloden. The latter
was then in his twenty-sixth year.
 The orderly-books of the Duke of Cumberland,
THE
recently published, fail to confirm the reports of his QUESTION OF
cruelty after Culloden. The Jacobites exaggerated his INHUMANITY.
severity, and they gave the provocation. That an order
was given to the Highlanders to refuse quarter to the troops under
the Duke of Cumberland is proved by Wolfe’s well-known letter. The
only trace of retaliatory rigour is to be found in the following entry in
the above book (Maclachlan’s ‘William Augustus, Duke of
Cumberland,’ p. 293): ‘Inverness, April 17th.—The ‘Officers next
from Duty to come from Camp, in order to divide and search the
Town for Rebels, their effects, stores, and baggage. A Captain and
50 Men to march immediately to the field of Battle, and search all
cottages in the neighbourhood for Rebels. The Officers and Men will
take notice that the public orders of the Rebels yesterday were to
give us no quarter.’ In Wolfe’s letter (he was then on the staff, and
one of Hawley’s aides-de-camp), written on the day the above order
was issued, that young officer says: ‘Orders were publicly given in
the rebel army, the day before the action, that no quarter should be
given to our troops.’ The latter, it is equally true, had said on leaving
London for the North that they would neither give nor take quarter;
but they had no orders to such cruel effect. It was soldierly swagger.
At the very outset, what savagery there was, was fostered by the
London gentlemen who lived at home at ease. Walpole suggested if
Cumberland were sent against the Jacobite army, ‘it should not be
with that sword of Mercy with which the present Family have
governed their people. Can rigour be displaced against bandits?’
But, if the young duke should be full of compassion after victory,
Walpole rejoiced to think that in General Hawley there was a military
magistrate of some fierceness, who would not sow the seeds of
disloyalty by too easily pardoning the rebels.
It was said in the London newspapers that the INSTIGATORS
French did not act at the Battle of Culloden, by reason OF CRUELTY.
of their being made acquainted with the order of
giving no quarter to our troops; and that the French Commanding
Officer declared that rather ‘than comply with such a Resolution he
would resign himself and Troops into the Hands of the Duke of
Cumberland; for his directions were to fight and not to commit
Murder.’
While London was awaiting the return of the hero, THE
whose triumphs had already been celebrated, the PRISONERS IN
anti-Jacobites were disappointed by being deprived of LONDON.
greeting in their rough way the arrival of the captured
rebel lords. As early, indeed, as November 1745, Charles Radcliffe
(calling himself Lord Derwentwater) had been taken with his son on
board the ‘Soleil,’ bound for Scotland and high treason, and these
had been got into the Tower, at peril to their lives. But others were
expected. The Earl of Cromartie and his son, Lord Macleod, had
been taken at Dunrobin the day before Culloden. The Earl of
Kilmarnock had been captured in the course of the fight; Lord
Balmerino a day or two after. The old Marquis of Tullibardine, who
had been in the fray of ’15, the attempt in ’19, and had escaped after
both, missed now his old luck; that passed to his brother, Lord
George Murray, who got clear off to the Continent. Lord Tullibardine
being sorely pressed and in great distress, sought the house of
Buchanan of Drummakill. It is a question whether Tullibardine asked
asylum or legally surrendered himself. In either case, he was given
up. The above lords were despatched to London by sea in two
separate voyages. Thus they were spared the insults undergone
thirty years before by Lord Derwentwater and his unfortunate
companions. On June 29th, Walpole writes: ‘Lady Cromartie went
down incog. to Woolwich to see her son pass by, without the power
of speaking to him. I never heard a more melancholy instance of
affection.’ Lord Elcho, who had escaped, solicited a pardon; but,
says Walpole, ‘as he has distinguished himself beyond all the rebel
commanders by brutality and insults and cruelty to our prisoners, I
think he is likely to remain where he is.’ Walpole was of opinion that
the young Chevalier was allowed to escape. He also says: ‘The duke
gave Brigadier Mordaunt the Pretender’s coach, on condition he
rode up to London in it. “That I will, sir,” said he, “and drive till it stops
of its own accord at the Cocoa Tree”—the Jacobite Coffee House in
St. James’s Street.’
 With leafy June came the duke; but before him
THE DUKE IN
arrived his baggage. When that baggage which the ABERDEEN.
duke and General Hawley brought with them from
Scotland was unpacked in London, the articles of which it consisted
must have excited some surprise. To show what it was, it is
necessary to go northward to the house of Mr. Thompson, advocate,
in the Great Row, Aberdeen. The duke had his quarters in that
house, after his state entry into the granite city, in February 1746. Six
weeks were the Thompsons constrained to bear with their illustrious
but unprofitable lodger. They had to supply him with coals, candles,
the rich liquids in the advocate’s cellars, and all the milk of his sole
cow. The bed and table linen was both used and abused. The duke
is even charged with breaking up a press which was full of sugar, of
which he requisitioned every grain. At the end of the six weeks,
when about to march from the city, the duke left among the three
servants of the house as many guineas. This was not illiberal; but
Mr. and Mrs. Thompson were chiefly aggrieved by his Highness’s
lack of courtesy. He went away without asking to see them, or
leaving any acknowledgment of their hospitality by sending even a
curt thank ye! General Hawley behaved even more rudely in the
house of Mrs. Gordon of Hallhead. Before he took possession it was
understood that everything was to be locked up, and that the general
was only to have the use of the furniture. This gallant warrior, as
soon as he had flung his plumed hat on the table, demanded the
keys. Much disputation followed, with angry
LOOTING.
squabbling, and the keys were only given up on the
general’s threat that he would smash every lock in the house. The
yielding came too late. General and duke together declared all the
property of Mrs. Gordon to be confiscated, except the clothes she
wore. ‘Your loyalty, Madam,’ said Major Wolfe to her, ‘is not
suspected;’ which made the poor lady only the more perplexed as to
why she was looted. The major politely offered to endeavour to get
restored to her any article she particularly desired to recover. ‘I
should like to have all my tea back,’ said Mrs. Gordon. ‘It is good
tea,’ said the major. ‘Tea is scarce in the army. I do not think it
recoverable.’ It was the same with the chocolate and many other
things agreeable to the stomach. ‘At all events,’ said the lady, ‘let me
have my china again!’ ‘It is very pretty china,’ replied the provoking
major, ‘there is a good deal of it; and we are fond of china ourselves;
but, we have no ladies travelling with us. I think you should have
some of the articles.’ Mrs. Gordon, however, obtained nothing. She
petitioned the duke, and he promised restitution; but, says the lady
herself, ‘when I sent for a pair of breeches for my son, for a little tea
for myself, for a bottle of ale, for some flour to make bread, because
there was none to be bought in the town, all was refused me!’ ‘In
fact, Hawley, on the eve of his departure,’ Mrs. Gordon tells us,
‘packed up every bit of china I had, all my bedding and table linen,
every book, my repeating clock, my worked screen, every rag of my
husband’s clothes, the very hat, breeches, night-gown, shoes, and
what shirts there were of the child’s; twelve tea-spoons, strainer and
tongs, the japanned board on which the chocolate and coffee cups
stood; and he put them on board a ship in the night time.’
Out of this miscellaneous plunder, a tea equipage
THE DUKE
and a set of coloured table china, addressed to the AND HIS
Duke of Cumberland at St. James’s, reached their PLUNDER.
destination. With what face his Highness could show
to his London friends the valuable china he had stolen from a lady
whose loyalty, he allowed, was above suspicion, defies conjecture.
The spoons, boy’s shirts, breeches, and meaner trifles, were packed
up under an address to General Hawley, London. ‘A house so
plundered,’ wrote the lady, ‘I believe was never heard of. It is not
600l. would make up my loss; nor have I at this time a single table-
cloth, napkin, or towel, teacup, glass, or any one convenience.’ One
can hardly believe that any but the more costly articles reached
London. Moreover, whatever censure the Londoners may have cast
upon the plunderers, the duke was not very ill thought of by the
Aberdeen authorities. When the duke was perhaps sipping his tea
from the cups, or banquetting his friends at St. James’s off Mrs.
Gordon’s dinner-service, a deputation from Aberdeen brought to his
Highness the ‘freedom’ of the city, with many high compliments on
the bravery and good conduct of the victor at Culloden!
The duke got tired of his tea-set. He is said to have presented it to
one of the daughters of husseydom, and the damsel sold it to a
dealer in such things. A friend of Mrs. Gordon’s saw the set exposed
for sale in the dealer’s window, and on inquiry he learnt, from the
dealer himself, through what clean hands it had come into his
possession.
If report might be credited the Duke of Cumberland A HUMAN
brought with him to London, and in his own carriage, HEAD.
a human head, which he believed to be that of
Charles Edward! Young Roderick Mackenzie called to the soldiers
who shot him down in the Braes of Glenmorristen, ‘Soldiers, you
have killed your lawful prince!’ These words, uttered to divert pursuit
from the young Chevalier, were believed, and when Roderick died,
the soldiers cut off his head and brought it to the Duke of
Cumberland’s quarters. Robert Chambers, in his ‘History of the
Rebellion,’ qualifies with an ‘it is said’ the story that the duke stowed
away the head in his chaise, and carried it to London. Dr. Chambers
adds, as a fact, that Richard Morrison, Charles Edward’s body-
servant, and a prisoner at Carlisle, was sent for to London, as the
best witness to decide the question of identity. Morrison fainted at
this trial of his feelings; but regaining composure, he looked steadily
at the relic, and declared that it was not the head of his beloved
master.
But all minor matters were forgotten in the general ‘SWEET
joy. Now the duke was back in person, loyal London WILLIAM.’
went mad about ‘the son of George, the image of
Nassau!’ Flattery, at once flowery and poetical, was heaped upon
him. A flower once dedicated to William III. was now dedicated to
him. The white rose in a man’s button-hole or on a lady’s bosom, in
the month of June, was not greater warranty of a Jacobite than the
‘Sweet-William,’ with its old appropriate name, was of a Whig to the
back-bone. Of the poetical homage, here is a sample:—
The pride of France is lily-white,
The rose in June is Jacobite;
The prickly thistle of the Scot
Is Northern knighthood’s badge and lot.
But since the Duke’s victorious blows,
The Lily, Thistle, and the Rose
 All droop and fade and die away:
Sweet William’s flower rules the day.
’Tis English growth of beauteous hue,
Clothed, like our troops, in red and blue.
No plant with brighter lustre grows,
Except the laurel on his brows.
Poetasters converted Horace’s laudation of Augustus FLATTERY.
into flattery of Cumberland. Fables were written in
which sweet William served at once for subject and for moral.
Epigrams from Martial, or from a worse source—the writers’ own
brains—were fresh but bluntly pointed in his favour. Some of them
compared him to the sun, at whose warmth ‘vermin cast off their
coats and took wing.’ Others raised him far above great Julius; for
Cumberland ‘conquers, coming; and before he sees.’ Sappho, under
the name of Clarinda, told the world, on hearing a report of the
duke’s illness, that if Heaven took him, it would be the death of her,
and that the world would lose a Hero and a Maid together. Heroic
writers, trying Homer’s strain, and not finding themselves equal to it,
blamed poor Homer, and declared that the strings of his lyre were
too weak to bear the strain of the modern warrior’s praise.
Occasional prologues hailed him as ‘the martial boy,’ on the day he
entered his twenty-sixth year. Pinchbeck struck a medal in his
honour; punsters in coffee-houses rang the changes on metal and
mettle, and Pinchbeck became almost as famous for the medal as
he subsequently became for his invention of new candle-snuffers,
when the poets besought him to ‘snuff the candle of the state, which
burned a little blue.’ In fine, ballads, essays, apologues, prose and
poetry, were exhausted in furnishing homage to the hero. The
homage culminated when the duke’s portrait appeared in all the
shops, bearing the inscription, ‘Ecce Homo!’